A Thousand Words
by ink and ashes
Summary: Random ficlets (Drabbles) dedicated to the rollercoaster that is the relationship of Shuichi and Eiri. Each is a miscellaneous plot and time - so it should satiate a wide variety of genre-lovers. WARNING: Rated for language and lemony goodness. Yum.
1. Drabble 001: Sleeping Pills

**Drabble 001: Sleeping Pills**

"You sure you don't want that pill? I _don't_ want to wake up to you screaming—like last time."

"I'm positive!" A brilliant smile—a sure sign of a later contradiction. "The movie wasn't _that _scary. I won't need a pill to sleep."

"You screamed like a bitch through half of it—and that's what you said _last_ time. I ended up having to knock you out with a two by four before you stopped thinking I was some headless killer." He walked over to the medicine cabinet, taking out a bottle half-empty with small white pills. "You'll only need to take one—you never get dreams when you're in a drugged sleep." He lit a cigarette, rereading the bottle just in case.

"You don't need to worry about me, Yuki! I'll be fine!"

"Who says I'm worried about _you_? Honestly, _I _want to get some damn sleep tonight."

Shuichi pouted instantly. Seeing this predicted result, Eiri chuckled, threw his coat onto the couch and headed over to the kitchen whilst the younger male took the jackets and put them away. He filled a glass with some orange juice and brought it to the still-frowning boy, whose large violet eyes glimmered up at him woefully. True, Eiri had been exaggerating about him screaming through half of the movie—though not by much, he reflected—he knew his little vocalist; and he knew that, without a doubt, Shuichi _would_ get nightmares if he did not take a pill to sleep. It would mean no sex, unfortunately, but he'd prepared himself for such a sacrifice when the pink-haired baka had practically begged him to the point of hysterics—predictably—to go out with him to see some new horror flick.

He should have never told the little brat about his finished book.

"I don't need it, Yuki." Shuichi wanted to prove that he could handle it—mostly because he wanted to be more mature in Eiri's eyes—and refused the glass of juice and medicine. He was touched by his lover's obvious concern, but also did not want to seem weak and spineless. "I promise I won't wake you up."

"Your _breathing_ wakes me up, baka."

"You're not _that _much of a light sleeper!" He was indignant, his brows furrowing. "I remember I threatened to eat you—and I even chomped on you a couple of times—and you didn't wake up!"

"Actually, I did—you bit my cheek and I punched yours."

Absently, Shuichi rubbed the mentioned cheek, feeling the ghost of the impact. "I definitely remember that—you should stop wearing your rings to sleep."

Eiri sighed; this was getting them nowhere. Perhaps a little sweet talk would get the boy compliant—the sooner they went to sleep, the sooner the next day could begin—and the sooner he'd get some sex. He hadn't had any for a month, having frantically worked on his newest book since he'd gotten a burst of inspiration that hadn't left his system for a very long time. Now, he was trying his best to be nice to the brat—he'd been extremely irritable, _way_ more than was the norm—but it wasn't working.

"Please, just take the medicine, Shu-chan."

There—that should do it. Eiri only rarely called his lover that, and the boy melted into a pile of barely discernible goo whenever he did. He honestly didn't want to deal with the Shuichi-alarm-clock, but what also worried him was the nightmares—the subconscious was a tricky thing, and secretly, he worried that Shuichi may be remembering things that pained even Eiri to think about. Sometimes it bothered him that the pink-haired vocalist hid a lot of things behind that heart-warming smile of his—sure, he usually wore his heart on his sleeve, but even Shuichi hid his emotions; he just chose a different mask than Eiri.

Thankfully, Shuichi did as asked and took the sleep-inducing pills, downing the glass of juice. Eiri ruffled his hair and Shuichi smiled happily, humming stupidly as they finished their evening rituals—bathing, eating, changing clothes—and finally went to bed. Shuichi bounced like a puppy onto the soft mattress, slipping under the covers contently. The blonde novelist hid a smile and flicked off the light, dousing his cigarette with a yawn.

An ear-splitting yell tore through the silence.

In an instant, the lights were turned back on, Eiri's half-lidded eyes glimmering with annoyance. "What?" Jesus, if it wasn't one thing, it was another—never again, he swore; as long as he breathed, Eiri Uesugi would never again let Shuichi watch another movie that had anything related to the horror genre.

"Everyone died in the dark!" Was the boy's explanation as he covered himself with the blanket, the only thing visible being his two large, fear-stricken eyes. Eiri sighed. "Th-that guy—he-he came out when the lights were out and r-r-ripped them to shreds! Oh my—Yuki! What if that guy from the film followed us home! What if he's actually someone we know and pissed off, and now wants to kill us! What if he tried to hurt you! What if he wanted revenge from a past life and tried to kill me! What if he was that fan I accidentally pushed out of the window and he wants to get back at me! It was only a three story building, I swear! I didn't even know anyone had followed me into the bathroom! He was just there when I turned around and I didn't know the window was open and I got scared and I just screamed and pushed and—"

"This is going to be a long night," said the taller of the two, sighing in resignation as the boy continued to rant endlessly.

Already used to this, he pulled the trembling Shuichi to him, holding his pink-haired boyfriend as he shivered and shook in an imagined fear. It was pure torture on Eiri, but he controlled himself with the promise that he'd have plenty of retribution the next day. Eventually, the baka relaxed under his lover's calming ministrations and remained sniffling in his arms—had he been in his right state of mind, Shuichi would have realized how uncharacteristically sweet Eiri was being. The pills didn't take effect for a good long while, and when he finally laid the brat to sleep, it was almost four in the morning.

Mentally swearing that Shuichi _would not _be attending work tomorrow in order to _make up_ for his sleepless night—and pseudo-morning—he flicked off the lights, crawled under the sheets and instantly fell into slumber. _'That damn brat will be the end of me one day.'_

Shuichi would be wondering why there was smile on the writer's dormant face come noon.


	2. Drabble 002: Safeguard

**Drabble 002: Safeguard **

He was over an hour late.

Clack. Clack. Clack. "Shit!" Delete. Delete. Delete. A pause. . . clack. Clack. Clack. Like a broken record on Repeat, the noises became redundant in the eerily silent home, the rain smacking against the windows rhythmically. The only light on in the entire dwelling came from the glaring monitor screen of the novelist's beloved laptop—and the flashing red of the answering machine. Slouching a little as he typed, Eiri Uesugi—known as Eiri Yuki to the world—kept his bespectacled sunflower-yellow eyes glued to the screen, uncaring that he'd damage said eyes by working in the dark.

_'An hour and fifteen minutes late.'_

The story was progressing nicely—the beginning was finished, all loopholes had been cleared before the middle and conflict had been resolved, and the ending would be a thoroughly agonizing one; there would be no happy endings in his novels. He'd be damned if he'd give into the public's wants on that front. Miharu Doujima would _not_ survive her accident—that had been purposely staged by Miharu's rival and sister, Reiha Doujima, who was in love with Miharu's beloved fiancée, Sanosuke Ichigawa. Sanosuke would _not_ spend the rest of his life with his one true love, and would, instead, kill Miharu's devious sister, spend the rest of his life on the run, and never again be happy.

A truly wonderful ending, worthy of an "Eiri Yuki" novel.

_'An hour and forty-seven minutes late.' _

_"Miharu," Sanosuke whimpered pathetically. "Miharu, darling, please—you must pull through this." He grabbed her cold hand between his two larger ones, his lips placing a tender kiss on the palm. His long fingers intertwined loosely with hers as he remembered the times they'd wander down the streets like this; quietly holding hands, basking in the mere presence of each other. He smiled in recollection, promising her the world if only she'd open her eyes—those milk-and-honey brown eyes that had enthralled him from the start._

_The flatlining of the heart-monitor did not register fully within his hopeful mind._

Yes, he was evil—and he loved it. Why the masses came back for more after mourning over the sorrowful deaths of true love and romantic dreams, he feared he'd never know. But something about the sudden severance of all hope made them keep coming back, praying for just _one_ happy ending. A happily ever after that only existed within fantasies and whimsical dreams.

And Eiri Uesugi was anything _but _whimsical.

_'Two hours late.'_

Several minutes ticked by and before he even realized it, he'd typed out the final, perfect line. He scanned the final pages with approval, deciding it was sadistic enough for his tastes before saving, printing, and storing the pages away in a manila folder—his deadline wasn't for another few weeks, so he didn't worry over it. He placed the folder in his bookshelf, stretching and yawning as his joints cracked in protest—he'd barely left the chair in the past month, thanks to his hysterical editors. At least now he could gain a sick kind of pleasure in pretending he was no where near finished when they called again, just to hear them scream and threaten bloody murder.

Oh yes—he was most definitely evil.

Now that his work was finished, he sauntered over tiredly to the kitchen, a can of beer and a cigarette the first things on his mind—well, perhaps not the first, but they were definitely on the list. He ignored the flashing answering machine and, having retrieved the coveted items, he plopped down on his couch, turned on the television—and he didn't find a damn thing interesting. Thoughts of a purple-eyed sprite flared frighteningly to the surface of his conscious, scaring him with the strength of how much his presence—or lack thereof—affected him. He quelled him with another gulp of the alcoholic beverage, channel-surfing in vain. Half an hour ticked by, and he realized just how late it was. He glanced at his watch, a frown marring his brow.

_'Three hours—three fucking hours!'_

He reached for the phone, his hands and fingers having a mind of their own. He was vaguely horrified at how quickly he dialed the cellphone number—when had he become so desperate? Or, better yet—when the hell did he _remember_ the number! Bringing the phone to his ears, he listened impatiently as it rang, waiting for that disgustingly cheerful voice greet him and explain to him exactly _why_ he was three fucking hours late.

He felt his breath hitch a little—something wasn't right. Maybe he was just overly worried—he scoffed at himself—but he had a bad feeling. Had he turned his ringer off? Why were there ten messages unanswered? Were any of them from Shuichi? He shouldn't have turned off his cellphone, but the little imp had been bugging him all day with nonsense—and he really wanted to finish that novel. But now, that post-inspiration flow feeling was starting to sink in—and, to his absolute horror, he found he felt incredibly guilty for treating Shuichi so badly.

But if the mutton-head didn't pick up his damned phone, he'd be too pissed to care.

"Pick up the fucking pho—!"

Click. _"Yuki!"_

Finally. The sigh he let out was one of relief—he hadn't even realized he'd been holding his breath. "Where the hell have you been, brat!" Okay, maybe he needed to calm down a little—god-forbid the baka find out exactly how worried he was; he'd never live it down. "Why are you so—"

_"Yuki, please! Help! Help me!"_

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. His heart stopped for a precious second before beating triple-time. His blood was roaring in his ears. "Where are you?" His voice was eerily calm, belying the anger and raw fear coursing through him. That murderous instinct was starting to kick in—what moron had dared harm his Shu-chan?

_"I'm running down the street around the café about a mile from home. Yuki—!"_

He was like a bat out of hell—in the pitch of night, his car was like a shadow, racing around and cutting off countless of people in his urgency. In only a few seconds, he found his distressed lover running with his clothes thoroughly drenched in the downpour, his brilliant pink hair plastered down to his skull. Violet eyes were wide, alive with relief; he recognized his lover's car immediately and made a mad dash for it, slipping and falling when an unseen puddle caught him off-guard. Eiri silently got out of his vehicle, jogging over to the fallen boy, who shivered, a few tears and developing bruises showing now that he was closer.

Without comment, he hugged the younger boy to him, carrying him over to the passenger side. He didn't care that nearby pedestrians watched in awe, or that he was now as soaked as the trembling brat—all that mattered was Shuichi . . . and the asshole that dared touch him. "Where did he go?" Whilst Eiri's voice was cold, it was not meant to hurt Shuichi—it merely conveyed his deep anger. Sniffling, the frightened vocalist pointed to an alleyway he last saw his attackers run down.

Eiri locked the car, telling his lover he'd be right back.

Almost an hour went by before the blonde made good on his promise, his trembling boyfriend anxiously awaiting his return. There was blood on his knuckles, Shuichi noted, but did not care—he latched onto Eiri the moment the blonde sat in the car, crying unabashedly as he finally allowed the terror and fear to take a hold of him. The novelist let him cry, bringing him to rest in his lap as he stroked his slowly-drying tendrils of hair, his other hand drawing small circles on his lower back. The heater was on, Eiri noted—at least they wouldn't freeze to death, but he was worried Shuichi might catch a cold. It would be best if they got home and Shuichi out of these clothes.

"We gotta get you home, Shu—"

"Th-they said that . . . I wasn't normal. Th-that I was a freak for loving another man." His voice was tiny—broken. Eiri's statement died a horrible death on his lips and he held the boy tighter, letting him bury his tear-streaked face in the crook of the blonde's neck. "Th-they said that people like me should be killed—should be put in their place." He leaned back a little, letting him see the pain that was etched so deeply within those large amethyst eyes of his. "They were drunk . . . but . . . they wanted to kill me, Yuki. They wanted to kill _you_." Tears threatened to fall once more.

And his heart broke.

How could anyone hate someone so adorable? So utterly selfless? How could they want to squash a spirit so pure and innocent that, even after such horrible things had been committed to him, he could still smile and laugh—and forgive? What kind of human being could ever look into those beautiful childlike eyes of his and possibly hate him?

"Monsters. Every last one of them," he whispered, his arms instinctively clutching him in a vise-grip—Shuichi did not complain. "They'll never hurt you again, Shu-chan, I promise you this." Shuichi nuzzled into Eiri's warmth, basking in the wonderful bliss he found in his lover's arms. He felt warm, safe—protected. No matter what they told him, he would always love this man without restraint—he would always love his Yuki. Damn them and their closed-minds. To hell with their hatred and homophobia—love knew no limits and no boundaries.

They would never stop him from loving Yuki. "I love you," he breathed. His voice was so tiny, he was sure the blonde didn't hear him.

But he did. And Shuichi's heart almost stopped. "I love you too, Shuichi." That soft murmur almost had Shuichi falling into a seizure. "And I'm driving you to and from work from now on, you hear me? You're giving me grey hairs."

"Deal," said the pink-haired one, unable to hold back the smile on his face. "Yuki?"

"What?"

"Say it again."

He hated when Shuichi used that baby-voice. "Say what again?"

"That you love me."

"Don't push your luck, brat." He scowled at Shuichi's giggle.

"I didn't think you would—but Yuki?"

"What?"

"Thank you. For rescuing me."

He softened dramatically. _'Anything . . . for you.' _"Anytime."


	3. Drabble 003: The Puppy Theory

**Drabble 003: The Puppy Theory**

At first, he thought it was just him being Shuichi.

But when Eiri Uesugi awoke the next morning to the sight of his lover dressed up in a puppy suit, he knew it would be a long day.

In his study, Shuichi sat on the floor beside his chair, watching him intently as the blond tried to work—but it was just no use. Shuichi in that puppy-suit distracted him more than he would care to let on—and so he decided for a walk. Grabbing his coat and cigarettes, he made for the door, not expecting his boyfriend to stop him on all fours, a red leash hanging from his mouth._ 'What the—?' _"Don't you have work today?" He asked suspiciously. He knew their manager, Crawd Winchester, would go on a killing spree if Shuichi didn't show up for work without explanation—so what was going on?

He was met with the costumed gaki dropping the leash at his feet and wagging his fake tail.

"I am not walking you," he said coldly, vaguely wondering why the brat was acting so strange—stranger than usual, anyway. When he heard scuffling behind him, he turned and eyed the male darkly, rolling his eyes when Shuichi only smiled and bounded up beside him. Again, he tried to ignore the baka, but to no avail—he wagged his tail and walked on all fours beside Eiri as the blond strolled casually down the streets of Japan, sighing inwardly as passing strangers gawked and cooed at the image they made—it'd be all over the tabloids and newspapers by morning, he knew, but Shuichi didn't care.

He just kept on smiling.

The novelist visualized the headline on tomorrow's paper: "A LOVER'S STROLL", if they wanted to be cheesy. If they wanted to go for that all-around eye-catcher, they'd probably settler for something like "SHUICHI SHINODU – MAN'S BEST FRIEND?" or "BAD LUCK'S ON A TIGHT LEASH". The article would undoubtedly have countless puns and ass-backward jokes on their love-life—and references like "doggy-style" and "leash" would pop up enough times to effectively hammer the point home. By this time tomorrow, the rollercoaster that was Eiri and Shuichi's relationship would be viewed and analyzed more times than the angst-filled ending of his novels by critical reviewers.

He made a mental note to buy the paper tomorrow.

When he'd gotten tired of being stared at so openly—he'd barely saved them from being chased by a salivating crowd—he decided to cut his walk short. He doubled back and went home, Shuichi tagging along dutiful behind him. Eiri waited until they were safely inside the house before he locked the door, threw off his coat, and spun around to stare the pink-haired gaki in the eye, his glare cold enough to cause a shiver to run down the boy's spine.

"For the love of—what the hell are you doing!"

"I'm wearing a puppy suit, Eiri-chan."

"I _see_ that, you imbecilic—wait, _Eiri-chan_!"

Were he not so damn aggravated, he would have found his lover's giggle adorable—but as it was, he did not. "Tee-hee." Standing on his hind legs, his paws cutely bent in a begging pose, those violet eyes of his never stopped shining. "I read in a book somewhere that puppies need lots of love and affection, or else they'll grow to be resentful and mean—or maybe even die from neglect. So . . ." Here, he turned an interesting shade of red. "I thought that if _I _was a puppy, you'd have no choice _but _to love me." He stared into his beloved's yellow eyes a little longer before dropping his gaze to the floor, twiddling his thumbs through the puppy suit. His words were a whisper when next he spoke. "I guess it didn't work."

Eiri was, quite frankly, at a loss for words. He stared down at the brat for a long moment before grabbing his chin and tilting his head upwards to meet his lips in a kiss that sent Shuichi's toes curling and the tail of his costume wagging like mad. When Eiri parted from him, he let out a whimper, frowning adorably. "You followed me around all damn day, missing work—and probably signing your death wish via K's anger—embarrassing yourself in front of all of Japan, invoking _my _wrath . . . just to see if I'll love you?"

"Er . . . I know—I'm an idiot. I just wanted . . . I just . . ." The ears drooped horribly. "I'll go change."

"No—c'mere."

The hope in his eyes made Eiri wince a little. Wrapping his arms around the costumed brat, he unzipped the back of the suit, gently peeling the material off of his lover's skin. Beneath, all he wore was a loose tank top and short shorts—he sighed when air cooled his heated flesh, and Eiri mentally admonished the boy for wearing the damned thing all day; he could have fainted from dehydration—or worse. In his lap, Shuichi noticed how gentle his Eiri-chan was being—had his puppy idea worked?

"The next time you want to know how I feel," the blond began, running his hands through damp pink hair. "Just ask me."

"But. . ." Shuichi fidgeted again, staring down at his own lap in uncertainty. "Well, um . . . _do_ you love me, Eiri-chan?"

Eiri was silent, the only sound being his sigh—his sunflower-yellow eyes stared into Shuichi's amethyst ones, as if looking for something. When Shuichi pouted, he sighed again, looking to the floor. It was rare that Shuichi acted so serious—which proved just how much this meant to him. "Honestly . . . I'm not sure how I feel." Eyes shadowed, Shuichi moved to leave the warmth of Eiri's lap—but the novelists stopped him. He wasn't finished yet. "The only thing I can tell you, Shuichi, is that I do . . ." Writers were not supposed to be speechless—but this one was. "You scare me sometimes."

This, Shuichi did not expect. "Oro? But why? How?"

Again with the silence. "I can't explain it. You . . . you just invoke thoughts and feelings that . . . I'm not exactly sure I want to accept." And when he looked at his young lover with that naked look in his eyes, Shuichi knew he spoke the truth—and that was all he could ask for.

Although a bit saddened, Shuichi smiled, though he couldn't hide that darkness from clouding his usually brilliant violet eyes. "Just remember—I'll be here as long as you'll have me." And with a wink, he bounded off to take a shower, hoping to wash the day's sweat from his body—and to shed the tears he didn't want Eiri to see. Under the torrent of water, he expertly hid the sobs against fisted hands, trying to control himself—he told himself firmly that, whilst his Eiri-chan had not said yes, he also hadn't said no. It meant he had a chance—even the smallest one—of gaining the love he so desperately wanted from his beloved.

And any chance—how ever insignificant—was better than none.

Sitting on the edge of his mattress, the blond novelist inhaled the calming nicotine, wishing he could soothe his emotions so easily. He knew the boy was hurt—Shuichi's façade had become so easy to decipher with time—but could do nothing to ease any of the pain. _'I didn't lie,'_ he thought, staring at nothing. He'd spoken the truth—he didn't know if he_ could_ love Shuichi. He wasn't even sure if he wanted to. Too much could go wrong—and probably _would_ go wrong. Was love even possible for someone like him? He didn't know—and he felt confusion unlike any other he'd ever felt before.

He turned his head to the side, watching the pink-haired nymph out of the corners of his eyes as he walk quietly out of the shower, his hooded eyes red and suspiciously shining. Instead of walking to the bed, he padded softly to the living room, his intentions of sleeping on the couch clear—it seemed even Shuichi needed time to sort out his own thoughts.

His bed would be a cold and empty one that night—but he could handle it. He'd do it for Shuichi, because he knew how it felt to want to be alone—to not want any hindrance to thought. True, Shuichi was a creature of love—wanting and needing it—and affection, practically living off of the emotions, but he was also human. He needed time to think and sort out his priorities and motives. To realize what he should be doing in his life. He grudgingly admitted that his body hungered for the presence it had become so used to during the long nights—but he withheld the growing urge. Sometimes sacrifices must be made for the greater good—and, oddly, he found himself not wanting Shuichi to think all he wanted from him was sex.

. . . So then . . . what _did_ he want?

And as Eiri Uesugi settled himself under the sheets, his yellow eyes frustratingly unable to close in slumber—he refused to admit why—he realized that he, too, would have to sort out his own thoughts and motives; after all, it seemed sleep didn't want to shroud him in its peaceful blanket of darkness. Might as well do _something_ other than stare at the ceiling and try vainly to ignore the cold space beside him.

". . . Eiri-ch—Yuki . . .?"

"What is it?" His voice was surprisingly gentle. It surprised even him.

"Can . . . can I sleep with you tonight?"

_'Down boy,'_ he thought to himself. After months of celibacy before ever meeting Shuichi, he wondered why a mere night seemed like such a hard prospect. "Baka, Shuichi—I told you to stop asking that a long time ago." He sat up, flipping the blankets over to let him slide in. When he did, the adorable brat laid his head on the blond's abdomen, his soft hair tickling the bare skin a little. Wordlessly, he combed his fingers through the growing tendrils, liking the smell of the strawberry shampoo that was worth such a ridiculous amount of money, Eiri had often found himself reading the ingredients to see if there were any crushed gems or gold that made the blasted thing so expensive.

Shuichi's soft snores echoed in the large room. He smiled a little, his own eyelids growing heavy.

Whilst he wasn't sure if he could love—or even if he really _wanted _to . . . he'd try. He'd try—for Shuichi. Because the boy deserved it. God knew Eiri didn't deserve the happiness he'd received in his crazy, troubled life—but somehow, he'd found it in Shuichi. A young, pink-haired vocalist with a heart-warming smile and beautiful doe-eyes. His laughter lifted any dark spell—even when it was _him _the writer was angry at—and the extravagant shows of affection refused to let Eiri think, even for a millisecond, that there wasn't anyone out there who didn't love him for him. The stupid little bastard made him—the grumpy, malicious, sadistic, and all-around unpleasant Eiri Uesugi—happy.

And so he'd try. Come Hell or high water—or blond brother-in-laws married to annoying sisters that are just as meddling and nosey—he'd try. For his Shu-chan.

. . . And for himself.


	4. Drabble 004: Writer's Block

**Drabble 004: Writer's Block**

"Go away."

"No! You haven't eaten at _all _today—I won't budge till you eat something."

"I'm working, you little brat—unlike you, it requires thought to actually do my job. And you're hindering that process."

"Yuki, you haven't written anything in over seven hours—take a break. Maybe if you relax, something will come to you."

"No, brat—go away."

"Argh—fine! But if you start to break and blow away in the wind, _don't_ come crying to _me_!" And the pink fuzzball stormed out of the room.

Slouching uncharacteristically, Eiri Uesugi stared at the glaring screen, trying—unsuccessfully—to get something to inspire him. Normally, he'd have absolutely no problem with _this_ part of his novels, but it seemed he was starting to repeat himself—the situations and complications were becoming redundant, the phrases and metaphors becoming cliché. The conundrum would not go away as easily as his young lover did, and he absolutely refused to reuse old material yet again. The public wasn't _that _stupid, unfortunately, and he'd feel like a half-assed writer were he to do such a thing.

So . . . after long, long, _long_ hours of typing, deleting, and retyping scenes, he realized that he hadn't hit a writer's block—he'd hit a fucking wall doing three-twenty in the wrong lane.

A full minute passed and the weary novelist blinked, his eyes dry. _'There's no way I'll finish by my deadline if this keeps up,'_ he mused to himself, stretching. He felt exhausted—perhaps the brat had been right. A twinge of guilt nagged at him—he was always irritable when in the middle of a story, and even more so when inspiration ran as dry as steam through a rusty pipe. _'This must be the most ridiculous problem a writer has ever encountered. I didn't know something like this could happen to novelists,'_ he thought disdainfully, glaring darkly at the glowing monitor.

Who would have thought it would be so difficult to write a fucking sex-scene?

_'Before Shuichi, I don't think I can ever remember a single monogamous relationship in my entire adult life,'_ he reflected, lighting up a cigarette. _'And any relationship I ever had consisted of somebody on their back within only a two-hour acquaintance, a quick fuck, and a grunt telling them that they knew where the door was—so why the hell can't I write a goddamned sex-scene? This is fucking insulting.' _He ran a hand through his hair, vaguely wondering if he needed a trim. _'Shuichi's did pretty good the last few times—I'll probably ask him to cut my hair . . . again . . .'_

His eyes widened—and he smiled. "Eiri, you're a genius."

Perhaps he should have been scared that he'd just spoken in the third person—but that didn't matter right now. He could knock out two birds with one stone—three, if he worked it just right—and all he needed was Shuichi's compliance.

Predictably, he found his frowning baka at the stove, cooking up something he'd probably gotten from a recipe-book—inwardly, he smiled affectionately at the boy's attempts at making him food, even though he'd turned him away so many times—and humming a wordless tune, his lower lip being attacked by his teeth in concentration. "Almost done—I don't care _what _Eiri-chan says. I know he's hungry—and he's gonna eat whether I have to shove it down his throat or blackmail him. Yes, Shuichi is a genius, right Shu-kun? Oh yes, of course!" And he laughed, unaware of his amused lover watching him all the while.

_'Maybe I misjudged—he's even nuttier than I thought.' _

Silently, the blond came up behind the startled boy and ran his teeth down the tempting expanse of shoulder exposed by the mere muscle shirt he wore. Their hips met, Shuichi's rear rubbing flush against the part of Eiri that needed him the most, strong arms encircling his deliciously smooth abdomen. The blonde felt him shiver and smiled softly against his lover's skin, inhaling the sweet scent of him. "I _do_ have an appetite," he conceded, kissing up the slender neck slowly and deliberately. Shuichi sighed, lost in the Eiri-induced oblivion. "But it's not for food." His words were sinful—and all too tantalizing. Shuichi melted like putty, a gooey, eager male in his strong embrace. Easily, he slid the shirt from the boy's body, his fingers slowly working the button and zipper of the khaki shorts the vocalist usually wore at home.

His progress was stopped, however, by Shuichi's voice of reason.

"Yuki—the food'll burn." Eiri smiled against his cheek, smiling at his lover's obvious delirium—his words were breathy and barely discernable. He loved it when Shuichi spoke like that, never hiding the extent of his arousal. "Eat something first—"

"Later." There was no room for argument in his voice, and the weakened vocalist could do nothing for the contrary. When Eiri finally turned him around, he saw that those large amethyst eyes were cloudy, glazed over with a slight sheen. He ducked his head, capturing his lover's mouth expertly, nipping at the lower lip; Shuichi replied eagerly, every other thought-process shutting down outside of what he was doing now. His slender arms wrapped around his Yuki's neck, pulling himself closer to his beloved; Eiri worked the last barriers of clothing, grabbing the love-hazy baka and placing him on the island counter, their lips never parting. Shuichi sank his fingers into his mane of blond hair, soothing the tension that had built up from hours in front of the computer screen—Eiri groaned.

He'd stopped taking notes the second he'd seen those glassy violet eyes.

_'To hell with that sex-scene—I'll figure out one later.'_

His knees were draped over the taller man's arms, resting where the crook of his elbow would be. Thighs parted—of their own accord rather than his lover's prodding—and younger of the pair moaned, his cry of pleasure almost masking the noise the blond made as he sheathed himself within his young lover, nuzzling into the crook of the pink-haired fuzzball's neck. He moved slowly at first, letting Shuichi become readjusted to him, before he settled at a faster, much more pleasurable pace—he growled softly, biting gently at the soft shoulder as his lover clutched at him, his whimpers and mewls driving Eiri insane. Nothing mattered anymore—not food, not the book, and most definitely not that godforsaken scene he'd yet to begin—except those delicious mewls and the teeth-grinding pleasure he derived from losing himself within the warm body that jerked and shivered in his arms.

_"Yuki. . ."_

His penname had never sounded so sweet—so tantalizing to his ears. Nails dug into his back, desperately holding on—violet eyes were clenched tight as his body was bounced in time to Eiri's movements. Together they made a sweaty tangle of limbs, panting and moving as one as they strived to reach that one, unnamable goal—it seemed so close, yet so far. With a raw determination, the blond drove harder—faster—into his boyfriend; it was odd, how they were in such a blind state—a frenzied, animalistic urge coming over them. Usually they were slow and languid, savoring each powerful stroke and thrust—each moan soft and each breath savored.

They were desperate this time.

Shuichi threw his head back, letting out a small cry as he felt his body twitch uncontrollably, his fair-haired lover settling his weight comfortably against him as he came shuddering and shivering within him, face buried in the crook of the boy's neck. Post-crazy-sex hit Shuichi quicker than it did the novelist, and he nipped at his lover's ear affectionately, giggling when he yelped. "Brat," he muttered, but the malice was nowhere to be found. Feeling infinitely calmer, Eiri sighed, letting Shuichi cuddle against him for once—the boy loved affection, especially giving it, and in the enlightened mood he seemed to have suddenly obtained, he didn't mind letting the adorable baka have his way.

Later, after many playful nips, giggles, and what seemed like a thousand passion-marks—he was going to regret letting Shuichi do the cuddling thing—Eiri had finally decided to eat, taking a plate of Shuichi's newest concoction with him to his study. He made it a point to eat before he lost himself in the novel, knowing the pouty face he'd get from his housemate if the food wasn't touched.

Ten minutes later, his fingers danced over the keyboard like lightning, a small, satisfied smirk still dwelling on his face from earlier. _'I think I just found my cure for Writer's Block.' _His smile grew wider, readjusting the spectacles on his face as he continued to think of scenario after scenario, the story slowly unwinding beneath the careful ministrations of his fingers upon the keys. Clack. Clack. Clack. On and on the sound repeated, the noise like music to his ears—steady hours of non-stop typing and he'd successfully finished. He hadn't proofread it yet, but the book was, for all intents and purposes, finished.

He pushed back from the desk for the second time that day, but this time, there was a feral glint to his smile. _'I wonder if dear Shu-chan's still up. . .'_


	5. Drabble 005: The Meaning of Abstinence

**Drabble 005: The Meaning of "Abstinence"**

". . . Care to repeat that?"

He fidgeted. "I think maybe . . . we should become… abstinent." His tongue fumbled with the syllables cutely, as if he'd just learned the word.

". . . Care to explain _why_?" _'Jesus—for that, I could've stayed single. I wonder who the Hell put this ridiculous idea in his head. Hiro? Tohma? Mika? K? Tatsu—no, onii-san is too much of a nymphomaniac to suggest something like that. Hell, I'll bet he'd ass-rape that Ryuichi if he had the chance. But the others are extremely meddlesome; maybe it's time I paid that Hiro a visit. . .' _Lazily, he blew out a ring of smoke, his gaze steady and calm as he stared upon the nervous form of his young lover. "And how the hell did you come to this conclusion?"

More fidgeting. Small white teeth worried his lower lip. "I-I was talking with Hiro-kun the other day, and he said that our habits are . . . they're not normal, Yuki—and I agree. Some of the things we do are bad for us—and maybe we should stop, ne?"

"And who the Hell told you to go telling _everything_ to your beloved Hiro?" He couldn't hold back his scowl—who was Hiro to say anything about their "habits"? Shit, not that long ago, he remembered the redhead being secretly head-over-heels for the pink-haired baka—so he couldn't say a _damn_ thing about anything; besides, what did they do that was so bad? Shuichi seemed more than happy to stay on bottom, and Eiri had absolutely no complaints. True, sometimes Eiri would feel a little . . . _friendlier_ than normal, and that would result in Shuichi being horrifically late to work—or just not leave the house that day—but other than that, they had a healthy sex-life. Probably healthier than most couples who'd been together for this long.

He didn't see the problem. Had he accidentally hurt Shuichi and not know it? The brat had given no indication of such—he seemed more satiated than even Eiri—but perhaps that time he'd thrown the vocalist on his desk table during a rather frustrating bout of writer's block had been too much. Shuichi had come in with home-baked cookies and coffee, hoping to coax the novelist out—he'd looked rather enticing in a pink apron, shorts, and half-shirt. Shuichi had frowned at Eiri's lack of response, but had squealed when the blond had pounced suddenly, slamming the boy down on the desk, removing any and all clothing, and thoroughly fucking his brains out.

But Shuichi had enjoyed that—so what the Hell was the problem?

"He's my best friend, Yuki—I tell him almost everything." Eiri withheld his scoff. "But even Ryuichi agrees." Yellow eyes widened. "Abstinence would be a really good idea. Of course, you wouldn't do it alone—like I said, I'll do it too—but we should definitely stop. It's unhealthy and will probably kill us one day."

"Two questions." His voice was harder—angrier. Shuichi seemed to shrink. "One—why the fuck did you go blabbing to that doppelganger of yours about _anything _to do with me, and two, how the _fuck_ will sex kill us?"

Although scared, Shuichi retained enough sense to frown. "Oro? Sex? Ne, Yuki, I never said anything about sex."

"_Then what the fuck are you rambling about!_" He couldn't help it—he hated being confused, and the threat of no sex got him tense. "_You have two fucking seconds to explain, Shuichi Shindou._"

"_Eep_! Hiro and I were talking about how much pocky I ate and he said if I didn't stop eating so much I'd get sick and I remembered that my okaa-san used to tell me that if I got sick too much, I could die, and so I thought that maybe, if I could abstain from pocky, you could do the same from cigarettes because they're bad for you and they give you cancer and they make you sick and I don't want to see Eiri-chan sick and I'm sorry I got you mad, Yuki, but I don't want you to die!"

It was amazing how many words that boy could cram into a few seconds—had he not been used to it, he would have been there for an hour trying to decipher the rabble. As it was, he shook his head, resisting the urge to chuckle. _'He's too damn cute and innocent for his own good.' _Only Shuichi would manage to confuse him so—he'd probably just learned the word and forgot about the other meaning people so often associated with it. When he _did_ chuckle, Shuichi dried his tears, and Eiri bade him come closer, letting the sprite sit comfortably in his lap. "You dumbass—you need to word things better."

He sniffled adorably. "I don't want you to die, Yuki. . ."

He sighed. "We'll talk about this another time—I still have to get over the thought of you telling Ryuichi and Hiro about our sex-life."

Shuichi made a face. "Hiro's my best friend, and like the brother I never had—but he doesn't need to know _that_. And Ryuichi's a friend too—but if I wouldn't tell Hiro, why would I tell Ryuichi? Besides, Ryuichi has Tatsuha—whatever _they _do probably violates every health code in the country."

Eiri found himself chuckling again. "Just do me a favor."

"Anything."

"Don't you dare—ever in your life—suggest celibacy. I'll fucking kill you."

Shuichi grinned, teeth and all. "Why would I do something like that?"


	6. Drabble 006: Last Straw Part I

**Drabble 006: Last Straw**

Click. "Moshi-moshi."

"Eiri-san! I've been trying to call you for over an hour!"

"I just got in from the store—what is it, Hiroshi? Shuichi told me that banquet doesn't end till six."

"Eiri-san . . . they left him for dead."

He froze. For a moment, it took all he could not to drop the phone. "Where?"

"Fujisaki and I brought him to the hospital down the Avenue. It's the one we brought him to last time when he got into that car-crash."

"Is he awake?"

"The doctor's are still attending to him—we don't know."

"Meet me at the doors—I'll be there in less than five." Click—and a dial-tone.

Barely stopping for his trademark trench and keys, Eiri Uesugi made good on his promise, violating every traffic law three times over in his urgency to get to the medical facility. He haphazardly parked his car within the multi-leveled parking garage, barely pausing to lock his door—long legs made quick time of the distance, reaching the calm, but clearly-frightened guitarist, a fidgety Suguru by his side. Wordlessly, the three ventured inside, walking past the front desk and heading straight to the Emergency Room—it was empty at four in the morning, and so no one caught sight of the famous Eiri "Yuki" in a less-than-immaculate state.

It took both Hiroshi and Suguru a full ten minutes to convince Eiri not to go stampeding into the vocalist's room—and if it weren't for the fact that his interruption would hinder the chances of a full-recovery, he probably wouldn't even have listened then. As it was, he reluctantly took a seat, reaching into his coat pocket before, belatedly, he realized he had no cigarettes; he settled for raking a hand through his bedraggled hair. "Hiroshi," Eiri said, his voice demanding obedience. "What the fuck happened—I want details and I want names."

Whilst not exactly fierce, it was easy to see how vicious the man's want for revenge was—death would come painfully to whomever had dared harm Shuichi Shindou. "They—the people at the banquet—had asked us to perform a solo. Shuichi had already sung by himself and got lost in the crowd. Afterwards, I went to go look for Shuichi—he was drunk, and Shuichi drunk is never a good thing."

"We'd left him in Sakano's care, but knowing him, he probably got so worried about our promotional advancements that he fainted or something."

Hiroshi took up the narrative once more. "We couldn't find him anywhere—but Noriko and Ryuichi had said they'd spotted him leaving with a couple of guys through the back about twenty minutes before. A couple minutes later, we found him almost-dead in the alleyway behind the studio—he was twitching. . ." Hiroshi's self-derisive expression and clenched fists were the only things keeping Eiri from exploding at the redhead—it seemed Hiro was doing all the loathing for him. "They didn't physically abuse him this time, but . . ." Hiroshi was wording his statement carefully due to Fujisaki's presence—but with a cousin like Tohma, he probably knew everything and then some. Silently, Eiri let out a small breath—if _that_ had happened again, he would probably never be able to look at his lover ever again.

The guilt would have been too great.

But then . . . what _did_ happen?

Hiroshi answered the question in Eiri's eyes. "Drugs—kilos of them. They used needles to inject him with heroin and liberal dosages of morphine—enough to kill him and make it look like a self-inflicted overdose. The doctors are trying to keep his body from shutting down due to the drug overload . . . but, honestly, it doesn't look good. A nurse came by a little while before you got here and she told me that they were still working on him." Hiroshi looked away. "The chances of him surviving are almost impossible."

"Tohma-kun says he's doing everything in his power to find out who did this to Shuichi-kun," said Suguru quietly, not knowing how to act in this situation. "He's investigating it personally."

Eiri nodded, taking out his cell and walking outside, dialing his brother-in-law's cell. When Tohma picked up, his voice sounded deceptively calm. _"How are you, Eiri-san?"_

"I'm at the hospital—Hiroshi just told me. Why didn't you call and tell me earlier?"

_"No one could reach you—even your cellphone was off. We left countless of messages."_

Vaguely, Eiri knew why no one had been able to reach him—but right now, he needed to ask a favor. "I wanted to ask you a favor; I want you to call me as soon as you find out who did this to him—and I want you to tell me everything you can about them."

_"Of course—I wouldn't have it any other way, Eiri-san. I hope you are holding up well; is there anything else before I go? I have yet to question Ryuichi, and I still have someone checking in to see if there were any large quantities of drugs shipped, bought, or stolen recently."_

"No, nothing else . . . just. . ." Eiri grabbed his head, a dull throb nagging at the corners of his temples. "Arigatou for your help . . . and find them . . . onegai, aniki."

For long moments, there was only silence. For years, Tohma had been hoping for even the smallest of endearments from him—and now, when he'd expected it least, he'd gone and called Seguchi 'older brother'. To say the green-eyed blond was speechless would be an understatement—his mind was reeling, his voice hardly able to mutter a 'goodbye' before hanging up his cellphone. Eiri, of course, hadn't really thought of the effect his term had had on the keyboardist, merely speaking out of a silent desperation and despair. Quietly, he walked back into the waiting room, where Hiro was staring sightlessly out of a window and Fujisaki was all the way across the room, buying assloads of junk food just to occupy himself, it seemed.

"I remember the night he came to me, after Taki Aizawa did that to him," said Hiroshi quietly once Eiri had taken a seat not that far from him. The blond listened, never having actually heard the exact details of what had happened after Shuichi's abuse. "Somehow, he'd managed to crawl across the city and stop in front of my place, dialing my number. I thought he was just sick, but . . . when I came down, I never expected to see him so . . . broken."

Eiri remained silent—there was a message here, and he wanted to know what it was. Hiro didn't seem the type of person to talk nonsensically in order to deal with feelings. "He cried and cried, asking me why it was so wrong to be with the person he loved. He asked me why it was so wrong—why people wanted to hurt him because of something he couldn't control. He said that he loved you, even though you probably hated him." Hiroshi's dark-grey eyes lowered to the floor, his flowing mane of auburn-and-ruby hair shadowing them from Eiri's ever-perceptive eyes. "But what really broke my heart—what really twisted the knife—was when he asked if it was his fault. He, the victim of it all, actually believed that, somehow—in some way—he deserved it. That it was his fault."

The guitarist looked up. "And it kills me to think that he probably thinks the same even now."

Yellow eyes met grey for an electric second, a mutual respect and understanding suddenly flowing between them—they both shared a deep, unnamable devotion to the pink-haired sprite that brightened up their lives with his loving smile and affection. Even though he wasn't ready to admit it, the novelist knew that they'd both die in an instant for the vocalist—that, come Hell or high water, this crime against him would never go unpunished. "If you don't find and kill whoever did this to him, I swear to you right now on my very life, that I'll rip them apart with my bare hands."

Inexplicably, he felt compelled to say something—anything. There was a lump growing in his throat and he didn't know how to dispel it. "I see no reason why we both can't enjoy meting out their punishment—an accomplice could help with the alibi."

Hiroshi smirked. "I like the sound of that."

"Anybody hungry?"

Turning, Eiri saw that Fujisaki had finally stopped robbing the vending machine of food—or perhaps he ran out of money?—and was coming over with an armload of chips, packaged cakes, and other random knick-knacks like soda, water bottles, and pocky of every flavor imaginable. Hiro helped Suguru, unloading the heaping pile of crap upon a small table beside them, both of them grabbing chips and soda—Eiri merely took a water bottle, tossing back half of its contents in one large gulp. It helped a lot—he felt a little calmer and cooler now that his mouth didn't feel so sticky.

Unwillingly, his thoughts turned inward as the two teens beside him chatted amiably, trying their hardest not to think about their vocalist and friend lying on a hospital bed a couple of yards away.

They hadn't been able to reach him on his cellphone earlier, he remembered them telling him. Honestly, he'd turned it off purposely—for some inexplicable reason, the brat's absence had troubled him, unleashing a shitload of insomnia that bitch-smacked him horribly in the face. Shuichi had always had a knack for calling right when Eiri's resolve was its weakest—so, in order to counteract against the evil forces of temptation, the blonde had turned off all ringers and cellphones, knowing that if he heard his lover's jovial voice, he'd change, head to that damned banquet like Shuichi had begged him to, and practically drag the baka back home and into their bed so that he could actually get some damn sleep.

He was surprised Hiroshi had believed the "I was at a store" lie; who went to the store at four in the morning?

He remembered now—a little belatedly—that the last time he'd turned off his phone, his boyfriend had ended up in the hospital as well, his arm and ribs broken and bruised from a nasty car accident. Then, he'd been scared out of his mind, pacing the hospital like a madman and barking at passing nurses. He'd even threatened a fiery death by cigarette to a doctor that had taken too long giving them Shuichi's status. Tohma had sued the living shit out of the aggressive driver, much to Eiri's satisfaction; afterwards, he'd been so relieved that Shuichi was alive—a bit worse for wear, but alive nonetheless—he'd babied the brat ridiculously, barely allowing him to shower on his own due to a hidden fear that he'd slip, fall, and break his little head.

But this was different.

This wasn't a matter of how—but whom. It wasn't a question of _when_ he'd get better, but how. Someone had attempted to end his life over something Eiri was willing to bet his fortune was as petty and fickle as his sexuality. If he survived, Shuichi would still have residual problems—his body would probably hunger for the drugs that had ran through his veins in such large amounts, and when he couldn't get his "fix", he would suffer from severe withdrawal. He'd be weak and sick for a long while, and Eiri was sure that, no matter how cheery and optimistic he was, Shuichi would still suffer mentally and emotionally from this.

May God have mercy on those who dared harm his Shu-chan—because Eiri would sure as hell be damned if he did.


	7. Drabble 007: Last Straw Part II

**Drabble 007: Last Straw (Part II)**

Executing doctors seemed like such a promising prospect.

When someone who'd been working on reviving a loved one for more than two hours came out with a solemn look on his face, one couldn't help but jump to conclusions. Eiri and Hiroshi both wore identical masks of fear, Suguru couldn't help but notice—the doctor approached them and they stood, awaiting the news they'd been not-so-patiently waiting for. Beside them were empty wrappings of what had been a monstrous pile of sweets and chips, Eiri having joined in near the end to help them consume the food ravenously—lack of nicotine could drive someone nuts, but it only seemed to increase his appetite.

"I'm Dr. Korowai. You're here with Shindou-san, ne?" At their nod, the doctor continued. "We've done all we can. . ."

At that moment, Eiri hated that line. He'd been in enough hospitals to know that that line always meant the worst case scenario. Inside he trembled—_'No,'_ he thought, unknowingly giving the smocked man before him the glare of the century. He would not believe that anything as horrible as death had happened to his smiling, giggling, optimistic lover. For once, Eiri had prayed—hoped—for the best; something he hadn't done since he was a mere boy. If his boyfriend was dead, he would become an atheist, believing that a God worth worshipping would never be so cruel. Of course, however, he took everything back within a second when the doctor grinned, his pearly-white teeth twinkling—Eiri could have strangled the man right there and then for making him so damned scared.

"Shindou-san will be fine—and will make a full-recovery. There are, however, some technicalities."

"Such as?" Now that he knew his Shu-chan was alive and well, he could feel his muscles unclench, that dull throb at his temples easing dramatically.

"Firstly, he should be kept overnight—and possibly for the rest of this week as well—for observation. The chemicals introduced to his body caused his system to basically crash—he literally went into cardiac arrest for a short period of time, and due to this, his bloodstream was not able to get nutrients to some portions of his body, thus he went into shock. If you can believe this, taking the drugs out of his system caused damage as well, and the alcohol in his system didn't help matters in the least. He'll suffer from withdrawal for a month—possibly longer. He should avoid all strenuous physical activity for at least the next three months and in the worst case scenario, the next six. Other than this, the only true damage left to fix would be the emotional. Not that it will be easy." Korowai went on to explain how they "flushed out" Shuichi's system, but after the initial explanation and diagnosis, Eiri tuned him out.

He chuckled mentally, almost not believing how right he'd been—he'd have to baby that damn brat again. "Is he awake?"

"Yes, but I can't let you see him seeing as you aren't his spouse or immediate family."

"We're going to see him." Eiri snapped. When Eiri told you something was going to happen, it usually happened.

Realizing that he was alone and outnumbered, the doctor acquiesced. "He's–he's just coming off of the anesthetics, yes. One visitor at a time, please. Note, however, that since he _is_ coming off anesthetics, he may not be entirely coherent. Ju-Just a warning. Heh."

As if agreed upon mentally, Eiri was automatically the first to see Shuichi—Korowai lead him down a rather quiet hall until they came to a door with the numbers 462 written on a small plaque. Politely, Korowai opened the door for him, closing it after the blond had entered the room to give him some privacy.

"Yuki!" Came the voice from the boy lying on the hospital bed, a few tubes sticking out of his arms. There was a bandage on his neck—amongst other places. It pained the writer how sick and fragile his lover sounded. "I-I'm sorry, Yuki."

"Baka—what the Hell are you sorry for?" Knowing that he'd never live it down once the pink-haired gaki got better, he sat down beside the bed and took the almost feminine hand and covered it with both of his, intertwining their fingers as if he didn't care how cold Shuichi's were. "Whatever ridiculous notion you have running around in that empty head of yours, you'd better get rid of it fast—or else I'll knock some sense into you myself." Before Shuichi's wide, unbelieving eyes, the novelist kissed the back of the boy's palm, letting his relief show for the first time since the news of Shuichi's impending recovery had reached his ears. "If I hear a single word about you blaming yourself for this shit, I swear you'll be sleeping on the couch for the next millennium."

There were tears swirling within those amethyst depths. "But it _was_ my fault, Yuki! If I hadn't trusted Ichigawa Sano-san and his friends, I wouldn't even _be _here right now!"

". . . You know who they are?" Yellow eyes flashed dangerously—his grip on the cold hand tightened.

Shuichi seemed almost afraid to, but he nodded. "H-hai—they were looking to join N-G a little while back and I had asked Seguchi-san if they could audition. I-I made friends with them, and helped them with their lyrics every now and then. Hiro helped the guitarist and Fujisaki and Tohma took turns helping the keyboardist—even Sakuma-kun helped the singers when they were uncertain. . ." Betrayal showed clearly on his features, and Eiri wanted nothing more than to rip those bastards to shreds. "They could've been a great band—Scythe, they were called. They offered to drive me home since I was drunk. . ."

The name sounded familiar to him—Shuichi had probably gushed about a protégé sometime before and he hadn't listened. "Listen to me, Shuichi—it _was not_ your fault. They took advantage of you—they deserve every bit of the pain they'll get, trust me." Leaning in, he couldn't help placing a lingering kiss on his lover's lips, thanking the Gods that he still lived. After several more minutes of enjoying Shuichi's mindless babbling and brilliant smiles, Eiri left the room with the promise to return, the small uplifting curve of his lips dying a harsh death.

In a quick, deft move, he flipped open his cellphone, his fingers dialing Tohma's number. "Tohma-san," he greeted, although his voice was far from warm.

_"Eiri-san, I'm glad you called—but I'm still questioning a few witnesses—"_

"I know who did it; see what you can find on the members of a new band of yours called 'Scythe'. Call me when you have it."

_"I take it Shuichi gave you this information? Is he well?"_

"He won't be 'well' for a long time—but he will be. He won't be at work for a little while."

_"That I understand—Shuichi-san is as incorrigible as always. I'll have that information you wanted within the hour; tell Shuichi-san I wish him luck. I now see why you love him so much—"_

"Bye, Tohma-san."

He knew the blond would be laughing to himself on the other line, but couldn't find it in himself to care. When he reached the waiting room, he told Fujisaki to go on ahead; he took Hiro aside. "You have a band at N-G called Scythe, ne?" His eyes were hard and focused now, a muscle twitching in his jaw—besides this, he gave no outward signs of the fierce desire he felt to annihilate those ungrateful dickheads that had dared betray and hurt his smiling Shuichi. They had tried to take away that smile—that laugh—that melodious voice. They had tried to take his life—and for that, there would be no mercy. He'd turn a deaf ear to their cries—and he'd make sure they begged for their lives before he ensured them a pain that would never end. Even in the next life.

"Yeah—they came to the company a month or two ago. Why?" Hiroshi was a smart one—his eyes narrowed.

"Because they're the ones we're going to pay a little visit. Tohma will call me with the information within the hour—still up for a little payback? It won't be pretty, that, I can assure you."

"I was looking forward to downright gruesome, personally."

"Then come with me."

.: Gravitation :.

"Ugh . . . I can't believe people actually do that _willingly_."

"Do _what _willingly?"

"Drugs—I mean, the word itself sounds so creepy and . . . oh God." He hurled into the marble bowl, offering his lunch as a gift to the Toilet God. When the awful sounds of his retching ceased, he sat back against the cool tiled wall, groaning. Gently, a damp cloth soothed his burning skin, another wiping at his mouth and face—afterwards, they were cleaned, rinsed, and then were reused to help calm the feverish boy. Violet eyes closed in euphoria at the caring ministrations, lulled into a dreamy state of oblivion. . .

. . . Before that fever kicked in again and there he went, kneeling before the Toilet God.

"I haven't felt this awful since . . . since Imouto-chan tried baking cookies and accidentally put raw garlic and rotten sushi in the batter."

". . . I'll keep that in mind the next time Maiko comes over."

"Oh, that's nothing—she almost killed me with her pancakes."

"How?"

"Let's just say that pancakes shouldn't be red and orange when you didn't even add food coloring. And they shouldn't have green chunks in them, either." This statement was emphasized by him puking his guts into the toilet bowl. "Ugh—I think I just threw up my spleen."

The blond that knelt beside him shook his head, cleaning and soothing his paramour once again. They'd been in the bathroom for the better part of an hour and he sincerely hoped the vomiting stopped soon—before Shuichi really _did_ cough up a spleen. Like a kitten seeking comfort, the black-haired vocalist crawled into Eiri's lap, curling up adorably and nuzzling his neck as if trying to escape the awful feelings that screwed up his whole equilibrium. He really wished he could take away his lover's pain—but aside from trying to comfort and be the "attentive partner" he didn't know what else to do, and that made him feel useless. "Feel a little better?"

Shuichi was, as usual, honest. "No—but I think my stomach's finally empty, so I won't be throwing up anything anymore." He moaned pathetically, burying his face into the writer's neck.

"Brush your teeth—and use mouthwash. It'll get the taste out of your mouth and help calm your stomach for a little while."

"Okay, Yuki." He sounded very much like a child. With a lot of help from his boyfriend, Shuichi managed to weakly brush his teeth and rinse his mouth, almost choking and swallowing the mouthwash. Eiri patted his back as he cough and sputtered, holding back a smirk—even the mundane things in life seemed that much more complex with Shuichi around. He rubbed circles on the boy's back rhythmically until he said he was getting sleepy from the massage—he then carried the whining brat to the bed, tucking him under the covers and making sure the house temperature was warm enough for him. He was about to leave so that Shuichi could sleep, but he was called back before he could turn off the lights.

"What is it, baka?"

"Can you sleep with me?" It was asked so innocently, Eiri knew he couldn't say no.

"Will it help you sleep?" He received a large nod in reply and he turned off the lights, taking off his shirt and crawling under the sheets with the sickened boy. As soon as Eiri joined him, Shuichi curled into the older man with a small sigh of relief, promptly falling asleep within seconds—Eiri lay there, stroking his hair absent-mindedly, smiling to himself.

His lover was—or would be—well and he'd gotten revenge. Enough to satisfy his vengeful streak? Never—but it was enough to satiate him for now. He'd make them beg and cry. He'd made them scream. Hell, he'd even made a weird sort of bond with Hiroshi in the process—he never imagined that he'd ever get along with the redhead, but this little endeavor had grudgingly forced them to admit that they had something in common—their devotion to a certain singer. After rinsing the blood from their hands and face—their clothes was a different matter—they'd merely nodded at each other, Eiri driving the guitarist back to the hospital so that they could all spend more time with Shuichi.

Oh yes, 'twas a week of accomplishment—now, if he could just get through a few more weeks, everything would be even better.

That is, if Shuichi didn't puke out his innards by then.


	8. Drabble 008: A Thousand Words Part I

**Drabble 008: A Thousand Words**

When he saw his young paramour packing, he knew something was wrong.

Tossing any and every item of clothing that belonged to him in a single duffelbag—how the hell did all those clothes fit in there?!—Shuichi Shindou angrily brushed the now-black bangs from his face, accidentally untying the elastic and freeing his un-dyed hair. He gritted his teeth ferally, tying back the growing mass with aggravation, single-mindedly returning to the task of taking everything that belonged to him out of Eiri Uesugi's home. It was one of the first times Eiri had ever seen Shuichi so angry—really, seriously angry. His amethyst eyes were hard and cold, his jaw twitching with the effort it took to suppress whatever it was he wanted to say.

He reminded him—eerily—of himself during a mild fit of frustration.

"What the Hell are you doing, Shuichi?" He leaned against the doorframe of the room they'd shared for the better part of a year, a cigarette hanging nonchalantly from the edge of his lips. His head still throbbed dully from a hangover, due to a fierce onslaught of alcohol that had him still wondering what he'd done the night before.

"You no longer have the right to address me as such, Uesugi-san."

To say he was stunned at the vehemence in the baka's voice would have been an understatement—that, combined with his hateful words, made the cigarette fall from his lips, reflexes catching it before it burned a hole in the rug. Had he actually heard Shuichi right? Was this angry, hateful stranger _his_ Shuichi—his usually hyperactive, annoyingly-adorable lover? Eiri could only stare in a sort of shocked awe. "What the Hell are you talking about?" And "Uesugi-san"? Shuichi had never even called him that when they'd first met! It had always been "Yuki" or, during rare, extra-sweet moments, "Eiri-chan".

. . . What had he done last night?

Shuichi didn't so much as hesitate in his task. "I'm talking about the fact that, I, Shuichi Shindou, will no longer be such a _fucking_ burden to you, Eiri Uesugi." It was bothering him how the boy wouldn't meet his eyes. Why was he acting this way—what the Hell had happened to change his affectionate, chipper Shu-chan? "You can find yourself another toy—I'm done being it."

He'd had enough. Forcefully grabbing the balled up shirt Shuichi almost threw into that enormous duffelbag, he tossed aside the unimportant article of clothing and pinned Shuichi down on the mattress, keeping the struggling boy stationary with his own weight. Any other time, this might have been arousing—Hell, there wouldn't be any clothes on anyone by this time—but right now was neither the time nor place. Something was seriously wrong here—and, although he hated to admit it, this bizarre behavior worried and bothered Eiri like nothing else could. "Stop struggling," he commanded, his voice harder than Shuichi's ever could be. The hatred in those large violet eyes sent a soft slither of pain into his wounded heart, but he ignored it. "I'm ten times stronger than you are; now, tell me what the fuck is going on before I _make_ you tell me."

The wince made him cringe inwardly—he'd never harm his Shu-chan, but it seemed like the only way to get the man to talk. The nest second, however, he became a hissing, spitting essence of fury. "As if you couldn't figure it out, genius—you're a lying, cheating sonofabitch and I'm sick of being nothing but your plaything." He gave a futile tug at his captured wrists, revealing just how much Eiri's presence repulsed him. When Eiri refused to let go, he settled for glaring daggers at the blonde whose face hovered a mere foot above his. "Get off me!"

For a minute, all Eiri could do was stare at the angry brat that had once been his loving boyfriend. "A sonofabitch I may be—but I've been one long before _you_ came along, and you've never had a problem with it before. What brought this on, Shindou?" He spoke through gritted teeth, his own displeasure reverberating through every syllable. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he noted how delectable his little baka was when truly angered; a thing of beauty. He even grudgingly admired how fiercely he fought and attacked when he believed he'd been wronged—but the only problem was that Eiri had no idea what the Hell he'd done, let alone defend himself against Shuichi's unclear accusations.

He wanted to know what he'd done during that alarmingly wide gap of time he'd blacked out due to massive alcohol intake. Some part of him didn't want to know—but he knew he had to face the truth . . . no matter _how_ horrible.

"Do you really think you can be famous and keep a secret?" He sneered—had he been anyone else, Eiri would have knocked a few teeth loose. "Let alone something as big—or, to you, as insignificant—as a _fucking_ affair?! The media watches you every second of everyday, Uesugi—did you really think you were that damn good that you could hide something like this from me?! That I wouldn't find out?!"

The novelist brought his nose mere centimeters from his lover's, golden eyes glittering dangerously. "I'll ask you once more, and that's it—what _the fuck_ are you talking about?" Anyone who knew Eiri "Yuki" would know he was a pubic hair away from exploding—the fact that he'd controlled his temper thus far was testament to exactly how much the vocalist meant to him. "Give me a clear, coherent answer, Shindou—you do _not_ want to see my bad side."

"Read the _fucking_ paper, Uesugi!"

"Where is it?" _'And what does that have to do with anything?'_

"_Get off me and I'll get it!_" After a few terse seconds of silence and hard stares, Eiri released the younger man, letting him stomp off and out of the room. He returned a minute or two later, an article in one hand whilst the newspaper itself was held in the other. Angrily, he thrust the article in Eiri's face, who snatched the blasted thing and read, adjusting the cigarette in his mouth. Shuichi scowled, staring off into the distance with crossed arms and a crease in his brow.

"Tripe," he commented brutally when he finished, crumbling and throwing the damning article across the room and into the waste basin—courtesy of years as a smoker. "If you believe something as ridiculous as that, then you really _are_ an idiot." He glared, refusing to let his hurt show. "How many times do we have to go through this before you'll understand that the tabloids rarely have facts—they exploit weaknesses and warp whatever they can in order to sell their 'news' and make a quick buck. I never had an affair with a woman naked Rumiko, and I'm getting sick and tired of having to go through this every fucking time your dumbass decides to put your faith in a goddamned article than in me." He may have been drunk, but damn it, he couldn't have cheated on Shuichi.

He just couldn't have. . .

"Don't turn this around on me!" There was doubt there—Eiri could see it—but there was something else. "I remember how tabloids work, Uesugi—but how can I ignore something staring me in the face?" Shuichi flipped to the cover of the newspaper, revealing the true crux of this entire debacle.

There, printed in color, was a picture of the blonde novelist himself, his hands on the shoulders of a fairly petite woman. The woman held a notebook clutched against her chest and she stood on tiptoe, long raven hair falling to her knees. Whilst she was beautiful, that was not what had Eiri's eyes narrowing; his and the woman's lips were connected fiercely, making it seem as if the two were sharing a goodbye kiss, or an "after-sex" kiss. It resembled the kind he and Shuichi shared often—and now Eiri knew exactly what had brought on this angry bout; the picture wasn't photoshopped—they'd seen enough to know the difference.

And, even worse, it was true.

_'. . . So_ that's_ what happened last night.'_

He could see it in Shuichi's face that he'd wanted him to deny it—to come up with some kind of explanation—but Eiri could not. He didn't know what he'd done during that blackout, and so he didn't know if that article was true or not. He gave Shuichi the answer he needed when he looked away, his countenance no longer angry—but regretful. "I was drunk," was the only thing he could say, but he knew it would never be enough. In a way, Eiri would have preferred Shuichi's screams and shouts—hysterics he could handle.

But this suddenly calm, collected Shuichi broke his heart.

There were tears shimmering in those expressive eyes of his, finally falling onto youthful cheeks. When the novelist dared look at the black-haired boy, those violet orbs were shadowed by his bangs, giving the effect of a man broken both emotionally and physically, his grief too great for words. "I would have done anything for you," he said quietly. Eiri found it difficult to look at him. "All you had to do was say the word and I'd do whatever it took to make it yours. I gave you my all—my everything . . . why wasn't it enough for you? What was so wrong with me that you couldn't find it in yourself to just . . .?" That musical voice broke horribly—he forced himself to not care. He was emotionless, remember? Cold, uncaring, heartless Eiri—that's who he was. That's who he'd always be. "Why couldn't you love me, Yuki?"

It hit him hard; he wasn't emotionless or cold or uncaring—that had changed the second he'd let Shuichi Shindou into his life. This annoying brat meant more to him than anything he could remember and those words—that little question—felt like a two giga-ton truck had crash-landed on his heart. _'I _did _love you, Shuichi . . . I_ do _love you—but you'll be better off without someone like me. You'll be better off without someone who'll hurt you like I do.'_

"It's okay—I didn't expect an answer." He bent to pick up the discarded shirt from before, placing it into the duffelbag and shrugging the strap over his shoulder. It took every ounce of control Eiri ever had just to not grab the violet-eyed boy and beg for forgiveness—forgiveness he didn't deserve. "As a writer, you should know that a picture is worth a thousand words, ne?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I was never smart enough to write a book—and my lyrics were always crap, right? So I don't have a thousand words to say, or scream, or even cry. I can't even think of a thousand words to say on any given day at one time. All I have are a few—and only one that I actually want to say." Tears were drying on his cheeks—and there were no more to fall. At that moment, Eiri saw a completely different person—he saw the Shuichi he'd failed to see before.

And might never see again.

"Goodbye, Eiri Uesugi." With nary a backward glance, he walked out of Eiri's home . . . and his life.


	9. Drabble 009: A Thousand Words Part II

**Drabble 009: A Thousand Words (Part II)**

"Tell me exactly what the fuck happened last night, Seguchi."

_"Well—Hello to you too, Eiri-san. Are you feeling well?"_

"Not anymore—now tell me."

_"Nani?__ I'm afraid I don't understand; I threw you a birthday party, you drunk yourself illiterate, and I drove you home—Mika drove your car. That's about it."_

"No, it can't be." His voice was growing haggard—a little too feral for Tohma's taste. Had they been in person, he had the feeling Eiri would be strangling him right now. "Rumiko—what about Rumiko?"

_"What about her?"_

"Who the Hell is she and what did I do with her?!"

_"Eiri-san, please calm down—"_

"_Kuso_! Have you read the _fucking_ paper?!"

_"I had it delivered this morning, but I haven't . . . ah. You're referring to the front page? That photo is rather incriminating, if I do say so myself."_

"I realize that—and because of it, I am now, once again, single." He inhaled the cigarette. He was surprised at how calm he sounded. "Now—tell me what happened last night. Did I fuck the wench in the photo or what? Was it some kind of elaborate scheme? Was it a joke? Or did Shuichi have every right to call me a lying, cheating sonofabitch?" At the moment, Eiri was questioning his very sanity—had he been having an affair with a woman behind Shuichi's back and not remember? Could that be it—was he delusional? Was she an old dalliance that had popped up out of nowhere and he'd thrown all morals to the wind in his intoxicated state?

But most importantly—why was this affecting him so much?

He sat, shirtless, at the edge of his bed, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette buds on the bedside table. No light pierced the darkness of the room—and it wouldn't have been a pretty sight even if it had. Empty beer bottles littered the messy floor, the waste basin unable to hold anything larger than a hairpin at that moment; he was in a severe state of depression, and he damn well knew it. Desperate, he'd called his brother-in-law, wanting to know the whole truth—he was grasping at straws, but any hope was better than none. . .

He was pathetic—he realized this, but couldn't summon up the effort to care.

_"Shindou-san broke up with you?"_ There was something vaguely akin to surprise in his voice.

"That's putting it mildly."

_"I'm coming over."_

"Demo—no—just tell me—"

_"I'll be there in five." _

Silently, Eiri Uesugi growled, wanting nothing more than to tear everyone and everything in sight apart. Walking into his dark and depressing study—his entire _house_ was fucking depressing—the blonde novelist sat down before his laptop, wondering if perhaps anything would come to mind; when people were depressed—writers especially—it made for beautiful angst-inspiration. The glowing screen glared at him and he realized that no amount of prodding or growling could get his fingers to type—it didn't help that he kept glancing at the dual pictures of Shuichi and him during the only two dates they'd ever been on; the first being from that hilarious and mind-boggling date when his album had gone platinum, whilst the second was a much more recent—much more valid—one.

It was the second that his sunshine-yellow eyes trained on. It had been Tohma's idea, he remembered; Eiri had protested wholeheartedly to a triple date—as did, surprisingly, Shuichi—but Tohma, being Tohma, had ignored all protests from everyone and their _mothers_, and promptly forced them all on a date as a gesture of friendship and celebration for Bad Luck's new album and immediate platinum hit: _Tasting Temptation. _

The normally pink-haired gaki had let his natural color grow in, his ebony tresses making him even more adorable than ever before. Amethyst eyes danced with surprise and happiness, not expecting the picture his best friend, Hiroshi, had taken on impulse. Dressed in a cute little number consisting of a belly-showing black shirt and low-riding baggy shorts, he was hanging off his lover's arm, standing very, _very_ close to his beloved paramour. Said boyfriend glared at the camera with half-lidded yellow eyes, blonde hair shadowing the little emotion shown within them. With that smile on the vocalist's face, he looked like a child with his first Christmas toy.

He hadn't known if he'd wanted to devour him, or throw a Buddha figurine at the little brat.

Without thinking, he reached for the framed portrait, taking off his spectacles and placing them upon the mahogany desk. A small pang of . . . _something _went through him, stabbing a heart he was never sure existed. He remembered Tohma and Mika walking down the boardwalk after Tohma graciously took a picture with Shuichi and Hiroshi—then Hiroshi being swept off to some random stand by his beloved girlfriend, Ayaka. He remembered Shuichi being uncharacteristically silent, both of his arms wrapped around his paramour and his head on the taller man's shoulder.

He remembered the odd sort of peace he felt standing there, over-looking the ocean with the cool salty breeze ruffling through his hair and his genki lover by his side.

_"Eiri?"__ Shuichi's voice was quiet and breathy, the novelist's name sounding almost too foreign—to intimate—in such a peaceful environment. Wordlessly, he ran his hand through the ebony locks of hair, silently inviting the younger man to continue. Like a kitten seeking more attention, he leaned into that hand, closing his eyes and purring a little. "Have you ever wondered what it'd be like to just . . . to . . ." He was obviously struggling with what to say, probably weighing the optional and possible reaction of each. After a few moments, he just buried his face within the Eiri's jacket, deciding to remain silent._

_"Just spit it out, brat."_

_He made a sound in the back of his throat, his amethyst eyes looking up at him. "It's just another one of my stupid questions—forget it." A smile was offered as an appeasement, leaning against the writer's taller, sturdier frame._

_"If it was nothing, you wouldn't have said anything in the first place—so spill."_

_His nose wrinkled effeminately. "It's nothing, Yuki—I love you." He looked off in the distance and beamed again, tugging on the blonde's sleeve. "C'mon! There's a target practice thing over there—and they have rabbit plushies if you win! C'mon, Yuki, I wanna try!" He allowed Shuichi to pull him across the boardwalk and to the stand, not mentioning the subject which had been so callously tossed aside. Shuichi, never having any aim to begin with, never made a shot; Eiri won two rabbit plushies and a gigantic box of strawberry pocky that had been devoured within seconds—and left him with a sticky tongue every time he forgot and kissed his childlike lover._

_Shuichi had been the happiest person in all of __Japan_

Fingertips lightly traced the jovial face forevermore immortalized on a slip of Kodak™ paper, his hands trembling a little. In his lifetime, so many people had cared and had promised him eternity if he'd just ask for it. After Kitazawa, they'd treated him as if he'd break if they so much as breathed harshly—but they still cared. They still tried to help him. Even when he morphed into the cold-hearted bastard he was fabled to be, they tried to stay by his side. They tried to help. They cared.

But none of them had affected him as much as _he _did.

He still never figured out how a nineteen year old vocalist with zero talent for lyrics and pocky for brains had come to mean so damn much to him. As much as Shuichi's voice grated on his nerves—_any_ damn voice would start to grate after hours of whining—he'd come to take comfort in that musical lilt. When he heard it, he knew Shuichi was near, about to tackle him with his Glomp of Death™ or just sing and dance around him in inglorious euphoria. He admittedly never really paid too much attention, but at some point, he'd discovered how different tones meant different things; too cheery meant he was hiding something, sly meant he was trying to get Eiri to say something, calm meant something was terribly wrong, and hyper was just normal.

Now it was gone, and he wasn't sure how he felt anymore—there was no desire to even get up in the morning, let alone go about life as if everything were hunky-dory. There was a cold, empty space in his bed, a bottle of half-used, brightly colored, strawberry-and-milk shampoo that Eiri wouldn't use if his life depended on it in the bathroom, and a brilliantly pink towel with Kumagorou embroidered at the hems lying somewhere around. Why was this affecting him so much? It shouldn't—goddammit, it fucking shouldn't! It had only been a day!

One goddamned day!

Only one . . . godforsaken . . .

Like a doll that had lost its batteries, Eiri seemed to shut down, his gaze clouding over with the photo still in his lap.

"It is as I feared—and possibly worse." Gloved hands forced his pale face to look up, his eyes squinting a little when they encountered the hallway light in the background. "I knew your voice sounded different but . . ." Emerald eyes were wide with concern. "You should have called me as soon as you saw that article, Eiri-kun."

The material was warm and comforting to his skin. In a surprising move even he hadn't premeditated, he brought the keyboardist closer, burying his face into the older man's cloth-covered abdomen, clumps of material tangled in his loose fists—the photo still lay in its frame on his lap. Although stunned, Tohma recovered quickly, running his hands through soft blonde hair in a move that was eerily similar to the way Eiri would comb his fingers through a head of pink—or black, depending on the singer's whim—hair in order to sedate and soothe his lover. He'd forgotten how comforting it was, having his scalp rubbed. Maybe that's why Shuichi always seemed to purr like the Cat that got the Cream.

He missed the fucking bastard. The realization struck him like a Viper doing 310 mph in the wrong lane—he was desolate without the pink-haired faerie pouncing around like some over-zealous monkey on steroids. With only the walls for company, he was miserable—he felt abandoned. He couldn't understand it; he'd been just fine before the brat came along—but now he felt as if something inside him had shattered.

As if he'd never be happy again.

Because that was how he felt when Shuichi was around: Happy. Albeit grudgingly so, but he was still content whenever he saw the hyperactive sprite look at him lovingly with those beautiful eyes of his. His smile could melt any wall of ice—dispel even the sternest of façades. It made him want to hand the genki little man the world on a golden platter with all the trimmings, to toss him down on a soft mattress and kiss every inch of soft, fruit-scented flesh. His fingers itched to tangle themselves in those longer tresses, his body cold with yearning for the other's heat.

Somehow, Tohma sensed this. Perhaps he really _was_ psychic—Eiri would probably never know—but he knew the truth, even though the writer wasn't even sure himself. Several long minutes they stayed that way, with the novelist just needing something to lean on—to comfort him—before he was strong enough to let go. Although annoying at times, he cared for Tohma like he cared for Tatsuha—only, he could stand Tohma much more than his "Oh-my-Buddha—is-that-Ryuichi-sama?!" little brother. Tohma's presence gave him a firmer grip on reality—on strength. He felt less like crumbling—less like wasting away—and more like a human being, even if only just. It gave him the will to take the picture from his lap and place it on his desk facedown, closing one of the more shimmering chapters of his life.

He'd probably never be over him—and even then, there'd always be memories. But maybe . . . maybe he could learn to live on. Shuichi had reminded him of what it was to be happy; Life was always a learning experience. Maybe now, he could be a better person for it. Maybe now, he could actually show the ones that loved him how much he cared.

. . . But . . . _Kami-sama_, did he miss him.

.:: Gravitation ::.

How much can one human being cry in a period of less than twelve hours? The only guitarist in Bad Luck, Hiroshi Nakano, had no idea—but he was getting a pretty clear picture of it right about now; his navy shirt was drenched, he knew, but couldn't find it in himself to care. Huddled in his arms and lap was a sobbing vocalist—_his_ vocalist. His best friend. Ebony hair tickled his chin, small effeminate hands clutching fistfuls of shirt on Hiroshi's chest. Violet eyes were bloodshot, closed in his despair and misery as fat droplets of crystalline sorrow leaked down his pale cheeks—his face was buried into the collarbone of his redheaded friend.

When Hiro had opened the door to find Shuichi standing there, a duffle bag in his hand, he knew something was horribly wrong. Without warning, the smaller man had launched himself into the guitarist's arms, sobbing wordlessly as if his entire world had been decimated by an evil Kumagorou. Ayaka, who'd been with him drinking tea, had excused herself, her large eyes conveying her concern—and understanding that this was a private matter.

And now, countless hours later, he still sat on his sofa, holding the singer in his lap as he cried wildly into Hiro's favorite shirt.

He barely had a story—only the few bits his friend wailed out during odd intervals—and from what he could make of it, Eiri had a lot of explaining to do. He was angry, and yet, something didn't feel right at all—and Hiro knew that there was something missing. There had to be; Eiri Yuki wasn't stupid enough to get himself caught in an affair if he was having one—the only reason the press had found out about he and Shuichi had been because of Shuichi's small slip, and Tatsuha not thinking straight during a cooking show in which he'd pretended to be his older brother in order to motivate Shuichi.

No, Eiri Yuki was smarter than that.

. . . Did he really betray Shuichi so harshly? After such a long relationship with so many obstacles passed, could something like this really happen to Japan's infamous couple—homosexual or not? Would Eiri really sink so low?

Before, Hiro would have stormed over and beat the bloody justice into the blonde, but time had shown that, for some odd reason, conspiracy and trouble seemed to surround and shroud the two lovers like a second skin—something so obvious and innocent could turn out to be the scandal of a century, if they weren't careful. Many times, Shuichi would be misinformed, try his best not to fall into hysterics, and end up bawling his eyes out on Hiro's ever patient shoulder. Eiri would end up driving over, throwing the hysterical vocalist over his shoulder, and then haul him home where they'd end up having crazy monkey-sex and making Shuichi late for work the next day.

But it was different this time. The media had somehow caught the novelist in an incriminating pose with some woman none of them knew—everyone and their damned _mother_ would see that article and draw their own conclusions. Everything pointed to the famous writer having committed infidelity to his paramour—so would this one _really _end so sweetly?

"Does he always run to you like this, Hiroshi-san?"

Both men jumped, the smaller of the two clutching tighter to his taller best friend. Hiro could have sworn he'd just aged ten years. "Seguchi-san! I didn't hear you—" His blue-and-grey eyes darkened. "How'd you get in here?" He felt Shuichi shivering in his arms, as if he feared the President of N-G Productions. Hiro attempted to sit up from his lounging position on the couch, but found that Shuichi was too skittish to let him move overly much.

The softly-smiling blonde grinned pleasantly. "Your door was widely ajar. I heard Shindou-kun's voice and decided to let myself in; you see, I've come to collect Shindou-kun and take him home." His gloved hands were clasped lightly behind his back, that polite smile never wavering. "There seems to have been a severe—that's putting it mildly—misunderstanding between Eiri and Shindou-kun here, and I would like to rectify this situation before it gets even more out of hand than it already has." Piercing green eyes met with heartbroken violet ones, tears still pooling within their glittering depths. "I know you are distraught—I can see this clearly—but believe me when I say Eiri is possibly even more so; and I'd do any- and everything in my power to ensure his happiness—which means _you_, at this moment."

Shuichi sniffled pitifully, looking very much like a scolded puppy. His eyes were impossibly huge, his cheeks still flushed and wet from his sorrow. Drying his eyes with his sleeve, he sat up a bit, letting Hiro finally maneuver his longer frame more comfortably—a few joints and muscles cracked loudly. "Y-you mean . . ." the vocalist took a moment to clear his throat, his voice raspy and husky from crying. "You mean Y-Yuki didn't . . . h-he didn't . . ." Why was it so hard for him to finish that statement? It just hurt so much. . .

Tohma's voice was uncharacteristically caring. "I'll explain it all to you in the car . . . demo . . . no, Shindou-kun. Such a thought has probably never crossed his mind."

There was a long silence in which all eyes fell on the ebony-haired man. They expected him to stay silent for a little while, digesting the information; when Tohma toppled over from a catastrophic tackle via Shuichi, even the genki singer was a little surprised at his own actions. "For real? You mean that even though Eiri-chan was drunk and not thinking straight and couldn't remember his head from his ass last night, he didn't cheat on me with that really pretty girl in the picture?" His words flew from his mouth a mile a minute, leaving Seguchi dazed and confused.

"Shindou-kun—please be so kind as to get off of me."

"H-hai—gomen ne, Seguchi-san."

"It's fine," said the blonde, dusting himself off. "Working with Ryuichi-kun has made me used to it—though it's still a bit of a surprise when people actually glomp me." Fixing his hat, he turned to Shuichi. "Shall we be on our way?"

"Hai!" He jumped from the couch, heading for the doorway—before he turned and gave Hiro a tight, loving hug. "Arigatou, Hiro, for everything. I love you—you're my best friend and always will be."

Hiro's arms tightened around the younger man. "Anytime, man. Anytime—now go, Eiri's waiting." With a smirk, he practically threw the smaller man out of his home, closing the door firmly behind him after throwing his duffelbag out. Shuichi retrieved the bag and followed Seguchi to his shiny car—it never seemed to sink in just how rich the people he knew were—and hopped into the passenger side, his bag of clothes and other assortments laying comfortably atop his lap. His hands wouldn't stop fidgeting with the straps. After buckling his seatbelt, Tohma sped off, his driving superb in spite of the eye-watering speed.


	10. Drabble 010: A Thousand Words Part III

**Drabble 010: A Thousand Words (Part III)**

"Daijoubu, Shindou-kun?"

"Nani? . . . Oh—h-hai, daijoubu, Seguchi-san."

"Please—Tohma would be fine."

"O-okay, Tohma-san." After the initial awkwardness, he sat back against the seat again, returning his gaze to the window and the world flying by as he watched. There was a quiet sort of calmness about him—one even he couldn't place—and he felt so drained. The face reflected in the glass was miserable and alone. He felt his eyes water.

He wasn't sure what to believe anymore. His past experiences with Tohma had revealed that Tohma would do any- and everything imaginable if he believed it would be in Eiri's best interest. He was in no way above manipulating and tricking Shuichi—he'd done so many times before. Back at Hiro's place, his heart had soared upon hearing Tohma say that Eiri had never so much as contemplated betraying Shuichi—he'd been so elated, he'd thrown decorum to the side and glomped the President of N-G Productions. But now, after the initial euphoria had died down, and he looked at it from a calm, logical vantage point, he realized that there were too many holes—too many things that led to the more negative of possibilities.

How could he trust Seguchi after everything? He'd seen the damn picture of Eiri locking lips passionately with that beautiful girl—and he'd seen that look of guilt on the blonde's face. That look that had confirmed the ultimate betrayal.

Had Seguchi lied to trick Shuichi into something? What could it possibly be? Now that he thought about it, Eiri being "distraught" was highly unlikely—why would he be? How many times had he been told how much of a burden he was to the writer? Nothing felt right anymore. If Eiri really did . . . do that . . . why would Seguchi be here, driving him over? But, on the other hand, why would Eiri not deny it? How much did he really mean to the novelist? Why would there be a picture of him and another on the tabloids and newspapers?

"Tohma-san?"

"Nani?"

"What happened? I-I wanna know the truth. I don't care if it hurts—just tell me the truth." He looked to the blonde, his amethyst eyes unwavering—Seguchi had never seen him so serious. "Is this another ploy to take Yuki away from me?" He saw the odd glint in the older man's eyes at his bluntness, but couldn't find it in him to care.

He'd been mistreated and manipulated one too many times to take this lightly.

There was silence on Tohma's part for a good minute or so. When he spoke, his voice was calm and even. "I've learned my lesson, Shindou-kun, that no matter whatever happens, Eiri-san is much better off with you than without you. This is no ploy nor plot, nor trick." The car slowed. "I understand your insecurities—let me lay them to rest."

They were only a few minutes away from the novelist's home—Shuichi could be blindfolded, hogtied, and shipped to America, but he'd always find his way home. After another moment of silence, Tohma explained. "I had taken Eiri-san out to a local bar he enjoys to attend at times, with my wife and Tatsuha. We threw him a birthday party and he drank—a startling amount, I should say. Since he could barely walk, we decided to keep him there for a while till he was coherent again, which wasn't till well past midnight."

Shuichi held back a small, sad smile, but his gaze wandered to the window again. "I told him I had a surprise for him when he came home—he said he had a meeting with an editor and would be back by five, so I took the day off and prepared the house for when he got back." His voice was small and forlorn, as if he'd just gotten his heartbroken and wasn't sure how to feel. "I thought something had happened to him . . . when I saw that picture . . . everything fell into place." He no longer saw the people and building race by—he only saw memories and remembered the fear that had gripped him when his lover never returned, and how crushed he felt when it was revealed that the blonde had allegedly spent the night with another.

It was a pain he hoped to never feel again.

Tohma sighed. "It was my fault. He said he wanted to go home, but we didn't let him. Mika was adamant in getting her brother to open up a little more, but in the end, he just became intoxicated and passed out on the bar. Before that however, a fan by the name of Rumiko Himemiya approached Eiri—I know not for what—demo . . ." With relative ease, Seguchi parked his expensive car into a space in front of Eiri's abode, killing the engine and giving the vocalist a piercing, soul-searching gaze. "He thought she was you."

Hope fluttered like a dragonfly in his chest as he gazed back unflinchingly into Seguchi's emerald eyes. His grip on the strap of his duffelbag tightened incredibly and his heart pounded wildly.

But Tohma wasn't finished. "He's never slept with anyone since the day he met you—if you believe anything, you must believe that." His gloved hand reached into his pocket and pulled out a key—a very familiar key. "The man in there is a wreck. I wish I could help him . . . and this is the only way I know how." He gave Shuichi the key—it was the very one that Shuichi had left in Eiri's house as a final sign to show his former paramour that he was through with being strung along. That he was leaving for good. Shuichi took it with shaking hands. "Many things he may be, Shindou . . . but loyal is definitely one of them."

Shuichi wasn't sure of what to say. He stuttered. "A-arigatou . . ." with a small nod from Seguchi, Shuichi fled from the car with his duffelbag in tow, pushing past the gate and coming to a screeching halt in front of the door. His fingers were cold and his whole body shook.

He unlocked and opened the door.

It took a good while for his eyes to adjust to the darkness and when it did, he took tiny, almost miniscule steps into the house, closing the door gently behind him before placing his bag by the entrance. His socks were silent on the wooden floor, side-stepping stray cans of empty beer that occasionally rolled in his way. "Yuki?" He called quietly, almost afraid to disturb the eerie silence of the dwelling-turned-dungeon. "Yuki, I . . . where are you?" He made his way to the blonde's study, expecting to find Eiri typing away in oblivious peace now that Shuichi wasn't there to bug him—but the room was empty, the usual hum of the laptop oddly absent.

He wasn't in the kitchen or the living room—nor was he in the bathroom. The last possible place was the bedroom, and so the singer went there, softly pushing aside the door and stepping into the dark, cold room.

Shirtless, Eiri Uesugi sat at the foot of his large bed, clothes and cans littering the space around him. "Yuki . . ." His elbows were propped up on his knees, his sun-bleached hair falling forward to cover his matching yellow eyes. A lit cigarette hung limply from his fingers. "Yuki, I . . . I'm sorry—I'm really _really _sorry. I never . . ." Tears choked him. Hesitantly, he moved to stand in front of the slouched man, bending down to his knees—he still couldn't see the writer's face clearly. "I jumped to conclusions, I know, and I'm so very sorry I didn't have more faith in you." In spite of how much he didn't want to, he felt a sob rip from his chest, his eyes overflowing. "I love you, Yuki! I was just so hurt and . . . I didn't think straight . . . I-I'm sorry!" He placed his small hands on unmoving shoulders, trying to get some kind of reaction from his lover—what he hoped was _still_ his lover. "Say something, Yuki! Please . . ." He sniffled, trying to hold back from crying anymore.

Shuichi inhaled; without warning, he was gathered in the larger man's arms and clutched like a lifeline. When his rambling mind registered this, he returned the embraced, his face burying into Eiri's chest. "I never want to leave your side . . ."

"Shut up." His voice was hoarse—it cracked horribly. "You damn brat . . ." He contradicted his harsh words, his grip tightening. "You're screwing with my head—I know you are. You . . . you made me fucking care . . . why . . ." It was as if he were confused—Shuichi clutched at him desperately. "It shouldn't have mattered so much—it's only been a day—I shouldn't . . . be. . ." His voice came out muffled, his face smothered by obsidian tendrils of hair. "How could I miss you so much . . .?"

In spite of his tears, he smiled. "I love you, Yuki, and I'm gonna stay with you as long as you'll have me—and even if you won't. Just please, don't ever get drunk like that again." After wiping his eyes with his sleeve, he gently slipped from his lover's lap—or, he tried to, anyway; Eiri wasn't letting him go. "I still haven't given you your birthday present, Yuki—I'm just gonna go—"

Cold lips descended upon his own, halting any progress they may have been making. "No—stay here. I don't need a present . . . I'm happy with you, I . . . I don't need a present." With a raw sort of hunger he hadn't seen in a long time, the novelist ravished him, leaving no crevice or dark hollow uncharted and neglected within the willing cavern of Shuichi's mouth. In a heartbeat, Shuichi was on his back atop the soft down-mattress, his hands tangled in soft tresses of gold. The violet-eyed vocalist moaned—Eiri's hands were everywhere, his lips and tongue leaving a wet trail from his mouth to his neck, nipping and tasting the sweet, soft flesh that lay there.

Within seconds, not a stitch of clothing covered his slender body, exposing every soft slope and curve to topaz-colored eyes. Shuichi panted softly, his teeth tugging gently at sensitive ears—the man above him hissed, settling himself between parted, ever-inviting thighs. Gathering Shuichi in his arms, he sheathed himself within the younger man's warmth, groaning and biting into his shoulder. "Yuki . . ." he heard Shuichi gasp, whose nails gently raked down his back in ecstasy—he tore the shirt from Eiri's frame, striving for as much skin-to-skin contact as humanly possible.

His mind foggy, he blindly sought his lover's lips, moaning when Eiri kissed him with a ferocity that almost scared him. _'There's a part of him that cares for me,_' he thought beneath the muddled remains of a once-functional brain. _'I know there is.'_ "Yuki . . ." He whimpered against his all-consuming mouth, loving the heat and warmth from the blonde's lean, strong body. He loved how the muscles in Eiri's body worked as the writer thrust into him, eliciting little mewls and strangled cries of pleasure; nothing was sweeter—not even strawberry pocky—than feeling his Yuki's long hard frame rubbing and molding against his own, cradling the smaller man in a cocoon of flesh and muscle. "Eiri . . ." He sucked on the lobe of Eiri's ear, his back arching up off of the bed and his legs opening a little wider in a silent plea.

After several heated minutes of thrashing and moaning, Shuichi threw his head back against the mattress, his petite frame shuddering and jerking in a sweaty, heavy release; above him, his paramour buried his face in the crook of Shuichi's neck, any sound he many have emitted being muffled. He slid inside of him a few more times before collapsing and laying his weight comfortingly atop the slowly-calming Shuichi.

"Why is it that, every time something crazy like this happens, it always ends up in sex?" Shuichi's husky voice sliced through the silence as he snuggled against Eiri's sleepy frame an hour later. "Not that I'm complaining," he quickly amended, earning a low chuckle from his lover. "But I'm just wondering." He brought the blankets around them tighter, covering their cooled, naked bodies. His head pillowed on the sturdy chest beneath him, he smiled, his own amethyst eyes drifting off. "I know they say make-up sex is the best and all, but . . ."

"Shhh—more sleeping, less talking."


	11. Drabble 011: A Wink and a Smile

**Drabble 011: A Wink and a Smile**

Why was he here?

"Hey there, minna!" The jovial voice echoed loudly in the enormous concert hall, that undeniable "Shuichi" chirp evident in every syllable; said pink-haired parasite smiled happily, his older, green-and-black haired doppelganger standing beside him with an eerily similar smile on his childlike face. The resemblance between them was as uncanny as the one between Eiri and Tatsuha—it had people questioning if they were somehow related. They both faced the crowd of adoring fans, not quite sure if it was the music or the leather outfits that was driving their fans bonkers.

Most likely, it was the clothes.

With a matching leather dog collar around his neck and chain-link leash trailing down his bare chest, Shuichi Shindou looked delectable—good enough to devour. A sleeveless red trench emphasized his deliciously bare flesh, his wrists adorned with spiked bands, silver chains, and various sorts of "good-boy-gone-bad" jewelry; his legs were encased in low-riding, baggy leather pants, tattered black boots and dozens of silver earrings completing the rebel costume the singers were striving for. The silver chained leash reached his navel, brushing against the opened zipper of those teasing pants—an inch lower, and all of Japan would see just how much of a man he was.

Ryuichi wasn't much different, having switched the trench for a fishnet shirt of mango and fuchsia. He sported a tattoo reading "Rebel Without a Cause" in Kanji with an evil Kumagorou in the background on his upper arm, the spiked choker around his neck differentiating his costume from his fellow vocalist's—and unlike Shuichi, his pants were very much zipped with a spiked belt to help secure it.

He sighed, shaking his head; what the Hell was he doing here?

He admitted—to himself anyway—that Shuichi looked delightful in his little ensemble, but why had the pink-haired sprite dragged him to yet another one of his concerts? He'd gone to their last one—and the one before that one, and the one before that—so why did he have to attend this one too? His ears were ringing from so many screaming fans, and if one more person asked "Are you the famous Eiri Yuki?!" he'd sock the living shit out of them, promise or no promise to Shuichi that he'd behave.

"Thanks for being here!" Ryuichi's voice sent another round of screams and shouts of "Marry me!" in the crowd. He flashed a smile. "We've got a great line-up for you tonight, and I hope you like it!" He handed the microphone to Shuichi.

"Our first song is a very old one that we Japanamized—"

". . . Is that even a word, Shuichi-kun?"

"I . . . don't have a clue, Ryuichi-kun—but who cares! We made it Japanese, flipped the music—and made it ours! Bwa-ha-ha-ha!" He laughed in this maniacal vain for a several moments before Hiroshi cleared his throat, glaring at Shuichi even though his brow furrowed. Fujisaki looked faint, Tohma having to nudge him before he passed out from fear and stress—that poor boy would have grey hairs before he was twenty, thanks to Shuichi. "Ah—gomen ne, I'm just excited." He smiled to the fawning audience. "Anyway—the first song we're performing is 'True to Your Heart' and we hope you like it, ne?"

"Let's get this party started, na do da!" At Ryuichi's proclamation, Hiroshi played a few slow strings, softly warming up before the keyboardists came in with their thrashing beats that made you want to jump up and dance like there was no tomorrow. A minute or two ticked by with only the sound of music amping up the fans before Ryuichi sang into the only microphone on stage, still standing beside the pink-haired vocalist.

_Baby I knew at once  
That you were meant for me  
Deep in my soul I know  
That I'm your destiny  
Though you're unsure  
Why fight the tide  
Don't think so much  
Let your heart decide _

After Ryuichi's pause, Shuichi moved to the microphone, his hand joining his idol's in holding the amplifying device. His voice was very different from Ryuichi's, being younger and everything, but it was lighter—airier—with an exuberant soprano that was beautiful and musical in its own way. Where Ryuichi's singing voice was husky and deep, Shuichi's was higher, able to reach the notes that some people could never get if they tried their entire life. They were both born to sing—and they were both damn good at it, even if Shuichi was just getting the hang of it—but it was obvious that Ryuichi no longer had to adjust his voice and singing to fit his young doppelganger.

He could shine on his own—and he did.

___  
Baby I see your future  
And it's tied to mine  
I look in your eyes  
And see you searching for a sign  
But you'll never fall  
'Til you let go  
Don't be so scared  
Of what you don't know _

Sitting by the bar, Eiri found himself actually paying attention to the performance, slowly sipping his drink instead of gulping it back like he was wont to do. He pretended not to notice how Shuichi's gaze would playfully and meaningfully meet his own, wondering when his voice started to sound so . . . good. The caterwauling he heard at home was always Shuichi just being an idiot, his natural hyperactiveness turning him into an insane, monkey-like creature that loved to cuddle and goof around.

___'Among other things,'_ the blonde thought with a smirk.

The song was definitely different from their usual—songs you could slit your wrists by, cry to, or just listen to with a breathy sigh—and the beat was extremely upbeat, causing even Eiri's foot to tap along with it without his knowing; he stopped his treacherous foot, of course, but grudgingly admitted that it sounded pretty good, even though the lyrics seemed like something out of a nursery rhyme. When the two singers sang simultaneously, their different ranges and tones came together in a beautiful harmony, instead of clashing like one would think they would—the chorus came out wonderfully, the two vocalists echoing each other artfully.

_____  
True to your heart!!  
You must be true to your heart  
That's when the heavens will part  
And baby shower you with my love  
Open your eyes  
Your heart can tell you no lies  
And when you're true to your heart  
I know it's gonna lead you straight to me  
(Got to be true to your heart)_

Why was Shuichi staring at him so intensely?

Taking another swig, he swirled the amber liquid around in his glass, only vaguely realizing his brother and sister had come up to him and were exchanging greetings—albeit, they had to practically shout over the music.

"They sound awesome, don't they? And Ryuichi looks so sexy . . ." Tatsuha was a gooey mass of slop on the floor before either Eiri or Mika could respond, leaving both older siblings to stare at him in a mixture of disbelief and hopelessness—for they had long ago given up on ever ridding the young man of his Ryuichi-oriented obsession. Millions of tiny hearts popped and flew around his puddle form, that goofy, love-struck smile and his ever-present nosebleed clearly visible, even though the hall was glaring every color of the fucking rainbow and then some.

"_______Right_. So what are you doing here, nii-kun?" Mika bounced her baby, smiling a grin that only mothers wore. "I didn't think Shuichi would actually manage to get you to come to his Valentine's Day concert—what bribe did he use? Sex?"

_____E_iri glared. "I don't think you should use such language in front of your baby," he countered, half-listening to his older sister whilst his other ear was trained on Shuichi, who was singing the next verse with an overabundance of heart and feeling. "And that's none of your business, aneki. I'm here, aren't I?" He turned to look up at Shuichi, who was standing very close to partner on stage—Eiri almost choked on his drink. The fuck? . . . Did he just . . . was he . . .? No . . . no! The blonde shook his head, wondering if someone had put something in the drink to screw with his mentality—because, surely, he hadn't just felt . . . _______jealous_ . . .

No fucking way. "You okay? Maybe you should stop drinking, Eiri." Mika's voice was soft—she seemed much kinder these days; she didn't threaten Shuichi every time she saw him, and even though she still wore clothes that emphasized her figure, there was a glow and gentleness that screamed motherhood. Eiri tried not to let his disbelief show.

"I'm fine."

_______  
Someone you know is on your side  
Can set you free  
I can do that for you  
If you believe in me  
Why second-guess  
What feels so right  
Just trust your heart  
And you'll see the light_

The two men, in spite of the age difference, were just about the same height—so when they swung an arm around each other, it wasn't hard for them to keep their balance. They used their free hands to hold up the microphone, sharing it with no problem for the next chorus and the verse afterwards, which they both sang together and echoed accordingly as well.

Eiri felt like bashing his head into a wall.

"Aniki?" Tatsuha had finally taken his eyes off of his beloved long enough to realize that something was off about his older brother. "You okay? Aizawa's not up there, you know," he commented, knowing how much the novelist hated performances that included both ASK and Bad Luck to share the same stage—or worse: the same mic'. Aizawa was nowhere near N-G Productions tonight, however, having gone over to America for some recording opportunities—so what was with that face Eiri was pulling? Tatsuha looked to his older brother's lover, thinking that nothing seemed wrong; in fact, Tatsuha thought that Shuichi looked pretty damned hot, even compared to the God of Hotness, Ryuichi.

Maybe aniki was just having a headache or something. . .

_________  
True to your heart!!  
You must be true to your heart  
That's when the heavens will part  
And baby shower you with my love  
Open your eyes  
Your heart can tell you no lies  
And when you're true to your heart  
I know it's gonna lead you straight to me  
(Got to be true to your heart)_

_________(Ya know it's true)  
Your heart knows what's good for you  
(Good for you)  
Let your heart show you the way  
(Ya know it's true)  
It'll see you through  
(Got to be true to your heart) _

_______R_yuichi would sing the next verse by himself whilst both singers would join together for the last chorus, and the final verse at the very end, he realized, and winced—what the Hell was wrong with him?! When was the last time he'd taken his medication? Why didn't they allow smoking in this building? Did anyone have a gun—and would anyone do him the favor of shooting him?! Damn it—it was only three-quarters through the first song! How the Hell was he supposed to survive the rest of the Nittle Grasper/Bad Luck duet concert?!

And why the Hell was he being jealous, of all things?!

"I'm fine, Tatsuha," he growled. "Look—I think Ryuichi's stripping," he said, effectively taking the attention off of himself as his younger brother suddenly caught a monumental nosebleed and let out an effeminate yell, twirling and collapsing on the floor after reverting to his more annoying, chibi-fanboy form. Mika shook her head, telling her infant daughter to never ever become like her crazy uncle—Eiri tried not to envision himself fully unzipping those sinful pants his lover wore, the glint in his amethyst eyes uncharacteristically sly even though he seemed adorably sweet.

_________Baby, heart is driving me to where you are  
You can take both hands off the wheel and  
Still get far  
Be swept away  
Enjoy the ride  
You won't get lost  
With your heart to guide you . . ._

_________True to your heart!!  
You must be true to your heart  
That's when the heavens will part  
And baby shower you with my love  
Open your eyes  
Your heart can tell you no lies  
And when you're true to your heart  
I know it's gonna lead you straight to me  
(Got to be true to your heart)_

Finally—at long last—the song was drawing to a close.

_________When things are getting crazy  
And you don't know where to start  
Keep on believing baby  
Just be true to your heart  
When all the world around you  
It seems to fall apart  
Keep on believing baby  
Just be true to your heart!!_

Fangirls and –boys screamed, Tatsuha joining them in his bloody state on the floor. Mika said something about getting away from Tatsuha's stupidity and wandered off to find her husband after the performance was over.

Still by the bar, Eiri scowled at nothing, gulping back liquor like an Irishmen on St. Patrick's Day. No longer caring what anyone said, he lit up a smoke, practically daring the barkeep to say anything—he didn't and Eiri mentally commented on how smart the young man was. With the cigarette hanging limply from his lips, he placed his chin in his palm, suddenly feeling bone-weary and tired; how did Shuichi, who was only four years his junior, do it? How could he be so damn hyper and energetic—so full of fucking life—when Eiri could barely reserve enough energy to so much as keep his head up after one song? _'It's like these people are sucking the life out of me—goddamned leeches.'_ He was bitter—a side-effect of the upcoming migraine?

Most definitely.

Feather-soft finger trailed teasingly along his spine, causing him to sit up a bit and almost fall off of his stool; spinning around, he found that the offender was the one and only pink-haired gaki he'd been thinking about—still in those blasphemous pants. But . . . where was his trench? Did he really walk through the crowd and to him with absolutely nothing but a chained leash to adorn his chest? Violet eyes glittered at him, his smile warm and endearing—the novelist felt the tension ease from his shoulders at the sight of him. "Did you like the song, Yuki?" His voice was light and chipper.

The response was automatic. "Tatsuha could probably come up with better lyrics."

He squealed. "That means you liked it!" Slender arms wrapped around the author's neck, that smile widening to almost-impossible proportions. "Yay—Yuki liked the song!"

"The lyrics sucked—but the singing was okay," the blonde conceded, an arm wrapping around his lover's waist of its own accord. He effortlessly pulled the smaller man to his frame, any thoughts of jealousy—maybe he shouldn't drink so much . . .—flying out of the proverbial window; with a contented sigh, Shuichi nuzzled into Eiri's neck, breathing in the scent he craved as he basked in the warmth of his Yuki's embrace. His settled between Eiri's separated legs, leaning against the bar stool a little. "Aren't you supposed to be onstage?" The novelist couldn't help but comment, catching Ryuichi dancing around on stage with Kumagorou by his side—quite possibly the most disturbing sight Eiri had ever seen in his life.

The crowd loved it though—was something mentally wrong with the Masses of Japan . . .?

Shuichi giggled at Eiri's horrified gaze upon seeing Ryuichi—no matter how many times he saw it, Eiri didn't seem to comprehend how Ryuichi worked. "The amplifiers blew up," Shuichi explained, pointing to the stage, which was devoid of all speakers and microphones—Ryuichi was flying solo with his Kumagorou-jig.

"How the Hell did that happen? I heard no such thing."

"That's good!" Shuichi smiled again, leaning back within the wonderful haven of Eiri's arms. "I think maybe Suguru-kun and Tohma-san overdid it with the music a bit; Ryuichi and I were saying something, but when Tohma-san realized that no one could hear us, he ordered that the lights go off and act as if the performance were finished—they're setting up the new ones now, see?" Shuichi giggled again, watching how Eiri's expression went to horrified to disturbed as the novelist saw Nittle Grasper's lead singer perform childishly with the pink stuffed rabbit. After a few moments—the sight would haunt his nightmares—he shook his head, looking down at his young paramour.

"What were you two saying?"

Shuichi buried his face within the material of Eiri's suit jacket—he was blushing adorable and the blonde felt infinitely curious. In a small voice, he squeaked the truth. "Ryuichi and I were just . . . we were going to say how much certain people meant to us and I . . . um . . . Teehee . . . Ryuichi-kun wanted to thank Tatsuha-kun for being his shoulder to lean on," he half-whispered. It was odd; Eiri knew what Shuichi was hinting at and found it weird that he'd be so hesitant and embarrassed to admit it—the pink-haired baka usually never showed reluctance to proclaim his lover for the writer, much to Eiri's chagrin at times.

Smiling a little, he held the small chin in his fingers, forcing those amethyst orbs to focus on him. "And just what were you going to say?" There was a smirk in his voice, his sunshine-yellow eyes gleaming mischievously.

That blush looked very becoming on Shuichi. "Ack!" He batted away Eiri's hand. "Yuuuuuuki!" Even his whine seemed horribly cute—maybe he'd had one too many drinks? "You know!" Again, his cherubic face was hidden within the folds of the black suit-jacket, much to the writer's eternal amusement.

"What I don't understand is," he stated, dragging the boy's face from his chest and forcing him to meet his gaze once more. "Why you're so embarrassed—you were going to tell an entire concert hall full of fans, and you can't tell me?" A small chuckle escaped him—yep, too many drinks for the Yuki tonight. He was going off the deep end. "You're too adorable for your own good." He didn't give Shuichi a chance to register the uncharacteristic words from his usually publicly-reserved boyfriend, his mouth descending and crushing the younger man's lips. Neither seemed to care that they were in a concert Hall, or that camera-flashes were going off like crazy around them.

For the moment, it was just them two.


	12. Drabble 012: Still Here

See **END OF CHAPTER** for important **AUTHOR'S NOTE**.

**Drabble 012: Still Here**

He'd been doing it again.

It was sometimes frustrating to wake up to an empty, cold bed—to go to sleep with nothing but air and blankets to keep you warm. I understand he works late, and that he has his own set of responsibilities to attend to; but is it so wrong to want him there beside me just to _be_ there, and not to satiate his carnal urges? Is it wrong to want someone there at night to quell those nightmares and insecurities that crop up without warning? I sound like a child, I know—an occurrence Yuki complains about often—but I can't help it; sometimes I envy that laptop of his, if only because he seems to stare at it with more conviction than he's ever looked at me.

And it's times like that when I wonder why I love him so much. People ask me that all the time, you know? "Why do you love Yuki-san so much, Shindou-san?" "Why are you still with that jerk?" "How can you put up with it?" "Won't it just be easier to leave?" "What's the point? You know you're little more than a meat-popsicle to him. . ."

I can never truly answer them.

I've gone through Hell and High Water for this man—this lone individual who could make my heart sing and swell like no other. I'm tossed aside at every interval, berated and laughed at, but I still can't find it in me to regret any of it; if I could, I'd do it all again without any doubt in my mind. I knew from the start that love would never be easy—although, admittedly, I wasn't exactly completely aware of just how right I was at the time—and I knew that Yuki himself would be anything _but_ easy. You had to fight for what you wanted, and I was—and still am—completely prepared for the obstacles set before me.

And yet. . .

During the quiet moments in the dull, aching silence of the lonely night, I roll over on the large down-mattress and bring the covers closer around me, snuggling into an artificial warmth that symbolized the emptiness in the space beside me—_his_ space. How could he groan about me hogging the blankets when he wasn't there? How could he say anything about me stealing his pillow and hugging it to me when he wasn't even aware?

I know he has a deadline coming up—damn it, I _know_ this!—and I know this is important to him. I know if I were in his shoes, I'd probably stay up nights finishing whatever book I was on till it was finished; if it had been Bad Luck, I'd stay up months on end till everything was done and ready. I may be his lover, but we both have obligations to our respective professions that have been there ages before I even knew of his existence, therefore, I had no real right to even _harbor_ such thoughts. It was wrong, selfish, and completely stupid of me to feel this way. If Yuki heard my thoughts, he'd probably beat me upside the head with that laptop of his; my mushy crap would only irritate him.

But how can I stop myself? It's two in the morning and I have to be at work at nine. I haven't seen Yuki—he'd prohibited any entrance to the study—for the past two days; I hadn't even heard his voice. My calls of "Tadaima!" were always greeted with silence and a huff of annoyance—and now, not even that. I curl into a ball.

I wish I were psychic, or had Yuki's extraordinary talent of being able to read people. I'm not always very good at it, and the only times I'm even mildly successful is when I'm trying to read Yuki himself. Any other time, I'm flailing like a fish out of water. Sometimes I find myself wondering if Yuki resents me for taking over his home—his life—before I remember that Yuki, no matter how reserved or quiet he may be, would never stand for someone just invading his space if there wasn't ay least _some_ part of him that allowed it. If that were the case, he'd have thrown me out ages ago without a single thought otherwise.

It was one of the few things that gave me comfort.

It's cold in here, I realize; maybe a window's open? I stand with the blankets covering me and go to check, but find them all shut firmly. I can almost see my breath. Deciding that I should at least get _some _sleep, I readjust the blanket over myself and grab Yuki's pillow, walking down the darkened corridor and settle comfortably on the couch; it's warmer here in the living room—maybe because it's not so isolated—and I feel my eyes already start to drift shut. The only reason I've stayed up this long was so that I could wait up for Yuki—to be the first thing he sees after emerging from his dark little haven. I debated for a little as to whether I should sleep—and I decided that I should, because, knowing Yuki, he probably wouldn't finish till mid-afternoon; K would kill me if I stumbled into work without any sleep.

So I went to sleep.

I dreamed of sunflower-yellow eyes and sun-kissed blonde hair. They were soft and soothing, lifting me up on clouds of sugar and pocky as I hummed in time to a wordless song in the sweet breeze. I dreamed of sunshine and roses with an adorable little puppy yipping and playing at my feet as I ran. It was a Utopia that could exist in dreams, and I never wanted it to end; storm clouds gathered in the sky and I felt a shiver go through me. It was starting again and I huddled against the trunk of a large tree, shuddering in a nameless fear.

"Yuki . . ." I whimpered his name, but no one came—there was no Knight in Shining Armor for me. Suddenly, there were no trees—there were no flowers or dogs or sunshine. I felt the burn of the hard, unforgiving carpet beneath my palms and my bare knees—could feel the white-hot pain that coursed through me at every thrust. Someone grabbed at my hair and yanked my head back harshly—I cried out, startled and trying not to let the tears overrun my cheeks. I felt a tug on my shin; they'd ripped off the pants that were hanging onto me by a thread, granting them more mobility. "Someone help . . . please." I whispered the words, knowing they were in vain. Another cry tore from my throat when the faceless thug raked his nails down my back in his ecstasy, shuddering and moaning in his release. His friend took his turn, grabbing my hips and grunting with pleasure when he rammed into me.

I ducked my head, hiding the tears and gritted teeth—my hands were clenched in fists, the other grabbing a fistful of the tough carpet in an attempt to counteract the all-around hurt and nastiness of this whole ordeal. Through my teeth, I let out a small, pitiful growl of resistance, no longer caring that I was crying, or that it was Yuki's name I whimpered to save me—to rescue me from this nightmare. The man behind me laughed, his nails digging into my thighs. "There's no Yuki here to help you, babe," I heard him jeer, his rough finger wrapping around my neck.

I closed my eyes.

I felt a soft, invisible hand brush the hair and tears from my face. ". . . O-oro?" It was . . . comforting. Opening my eyes, I realized I was no longer in Aizawa's apartment, but in a bizarre void of yellow and pink. I was floating weightlessly—flying? Soft kisses rained down on my neck, a few, gentle ones brushing over my forehead—they felt so real and loving, I almost believed that they _were_ real. The scent of nicotine and vanilla assaulted my nose, still runny from crying; Yuki. _'He was here—he'd come for me!' _An elation I've never known before overcame my senses, and I smiled.

Yuki came for me—he cared. My dreams were happy and sweet once more.

I woke up some time before eight, groggily realizing that I was on the bed again—only this time, it was warm. I was alone but . . . had Yuki stayed with me? I know I didn't sleepwalk, so he must have carried me here—I squealed inwardly—but had he actually stayed with me? Looking around, I saw that he was nowhere to be found; I smiled anyway, a noticeable bounce to my step during my morning activities even though I could have used several more hours of sleep. I was zipping up my long, baggy khaki pants when I realized I'd be late for work if I didn't hurry. "Shit!" I muttered, throwing on a black sleeveless and grabbing my hooded-sweater.

"I'm going to work now, Yuki!" I called, still grinning. I heard no reply, but knew the novelist could still hear me. "I'll be home late today, so don't wait up for me!" I grabbed my backpack, shrugging on my orange hoodie and walking to the door, slipping on my sandals before shouting, "Love you—bye!" I locked the door behind me and sprinted off to work, my moody cheery and bright.

Hiro was the first to comment on my happy mood—he always is—and the others were just happy I was actually doing my job instead of moping and crying about Yuki. I know I give them Hell—in spite of the fact that we're colleagues, we're also friends—and I try my best today in an effort to make up for lost time and those horrible, whiny days that they'd had to deal with my melodramatic tendencies. During a break, I find out that Ayaka-chan's coming over and glomp my best friend's girlfriend, earning a giggle and a blush in return—things may have been complicated before, but since she's head-over-heels for Hiro now, we've been really good friends; she's super nice!

"Hey Shu—you're not trying anything on Ayaka, are you? Don't make me hurt you. . ." Hiro smirked cheekily, leaning against the doorframe.

"So what if I am?" I tease, still hugging the longhaired beauty.

"Then I'm just gonna have to tell Yuki-san that Shuichi's _finally_ into girls."

I stick my tongue out at him over Ayaka-chan's shoulder. "That was a cheapshot. Why'd you have to bring Yuki into th—Hey!" I'm a bit slow on the intake, but damn it! That was just _mean_! "I am _so_ into girls! I'm _bi_sexual, not _homo_sexual!"

"What does it matter if you're with Yuki-san?"

"Why you—!" And then I realize something. "You've been talking to K, haven't you?" I grumble, releasing Ayaka-chan from my arms so that she could go and hug her boyfriend. Hiro's smile tells me all I need to know and I shake my head, leaving the room so that the two could be alone; those two could be ickier than Yuki and I during sex—the groping, the slobbering, the glazed-over eyes. . .

I wonder when they're getting married. . .

The rest of the day went by pretty well; we managed to get a couple of songs recorded and the lyrics written for another that Fujisaki-kun still has to synthesize. K didn't even have to take his gun from its holster, which is definitely a world record. Afterwards, Hiro took Ayaka-chan home and I separated from my buddy to go to my own home, waving and smiling as I said my "See you later!" to everyone. On the way, I hummed and sang a little, actually skipping, much to the confusion and befuddlement of random pedestrians. I was almost hit by a car—better not tell Yuki that—and run over by a really fast motorcycle—you _trying_ to kill me, Hiro?! Eyes on the road!—but I made it home safely, my "Tadaima!" as loud and rambunctious as ever.

But I nearly keeled over when I heard an "Okaeri" in return.

"Yuki?!" I was shocked. My Yuki _never_ said "Okaeri" to me—never ever! Was he sick? Was he hurt? Had he gone delusional? Kami-sama knew how that man could lose his mind after more than a week of no sleep—I remember that one time he forced me to sit in the kitchen and listen to his theory on how pocky and strawberry shortcake were a government conspiracy in order to addict the people of the world and one day claim them as mindless slaves; a genius, yes—but my beloved Yuki was not exactly sane.

_'Maybe Tatsuha's trying to trick me again,' _I thought, frowning. Yuki's younger brother had an obsession with Ryuichi-kun, and often let my similarities to the rock-God cloud his head—I don't look _that_ much like him, ne?—so I was wary. He'd posed at Yuki before—they're almost identical! Creepy!—and I didn't put it passed him. Why must Yuki's brother continuously try to molest me?

"I'm in the kitchen, brat," answered the blonde, and I knew it was him—even Tatsuha never called me brat whilst in his Yuki-disguise. Sliding off my sandals and bag, I close the door and bound to the kitchen, taking a moment to study my beautiful, graceful lover; cigarette hanging from his lips, he sliced vegetables and tossed them into the boiling pot on the stovetop. He wore no glasses and his feet were bare, sweatpants and an unbuttoned shirt adorning and emphasizing his long, lean body. His brow was furrowed in concentration. "Could you pass me the vinegar in the cupboard?" He never looked up from his work—I envied his skill with a knife, remembering my own little mishap with the sharp object.

"Sure!" I fished around in the cupboard and acquired what he'd asked me for, bouncing over and giving it to him. When he instructed me to put in a couple capfuls, I did so, putting it away afterwards and slipping my arms around his waist, my cheek against his strong, hard back. I smiled, content. "Mmm. Ne Yuki, what're you making?" The fragrant aroma coming from the pot combined with the essence _a la_ Yuki lulled me, my eyes closing a little.

"Spaghetti."

I tried not to squeal. "Really?! I _love_ spaghetti!" It was Yuki's fault I was introduced to these non-Japanese foods; he'd taken me to these food-places over in New York and I fell head-over-heels for hot dogs, hoagies ("Heroes", they called them), tacos, and spaghetti. There was some other stuff I forgot the name of, but spaghetti was _definitely _one of them—they beat Ramen noodles any day. I reached up and gave him a peck on the cheek, giggling when I saw him blush. "You're so sweet, Yuki."

"Beat it, brat—you'll make me cut myself."

Giggling, I bounced out of the kitchen with a "Love you!", taking off my bright sweater and heading for the shower. If anything, my smile had only grown since earlier, dispelling any lingering doubts from the night before; my shower was quick and thorough because I was almost jumping out of my skin—I had sorely missed Yuki and I was rushing through everything just so I could be in the same room with him again. Drying my hair, I slipped on some sorts, socks, and a random shirt I pulled from my dresser, getting comfortable since I planned on staying home for the rest of the day.

_This _was why I was still here—why I would never _ever_ leave Yuki.

I loved Yuki in more ways than I could name—and I knew he cared for me. He's shown me in so many little ways. I remember once saying to myself that I could live without love and affection, as long as I didn't have to live without _him_ there with me—and I think that will never change. Yuki isn't the cuddling sort . . . but he loves me; he loves me . . . and that's all that matters, right? "All you need is love," and all of that mushy crap? With love, you need effort, determination, and perseverance for the countless obstacles. You need strength. You need faith. You need trust. Without any of that, love will crumble and fall—it will _not_ survive all odds. It has, and never _will_ be, all sunshine and daisies. It's pain and tears. Endless nights of doubt and insecurities.

But as long as my Yuki was here, with me, I can overcome anything. He gives me strength to carry on. He's my everything.

What more do I need?

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**.:: Important**** AUTHOR'S NOTES below ::.**

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**Author's Notes: **I hate doing Author's notes, so I'll try to sum up everything; I never had, nor ever _will_ have, a beta reader, simply because I lack the patience to put up with waiting. Period. I make mistakes – a shitload of 'em, if you go by my life – and I am, by far, no literary genius. However, in light of this matter, I'd like to thank you all very much for reviewing, and letting me know your honest thoughts (and revealing my stupidity in the hilarious discrepancy of Eiri's attire during the end of Chapter 10. Bwah-ha!) I love reviews – they make me happy. I go to my Inbox, and when I see "Review Alert!" I squeal like a pocky-overdosing Shuichi screwing a very "friendly" Eiri-san.

That is to say, I adore them.

So now, feeling eternally stupid, I will go back and revise every goddamned chapter until my temporarily-perfectionist phase passes and I can spout random drabble as easily as I can imagine Eiri and Shuichi having hot, sweaty monkey-sex. I might even add some more to the chapters, if so inclined, but stay tuned, because the Loki is far from through. Please continue to review, and let me know when I've fucked up – trust me, it makes me feel better when the wrong hath been righted, than when the wrong hath been left alone and hath stayed thus . . . eth. For instance, I notice my chapters getting . . . weak. Lame. Clichéd . . . Fuck. Too much damned CardCaptor Sakura . . .

. . . See, this is why I hate Author's Notes. They always take up about one-fourth of the fucking chapter. And they're annoying. So now I'm illiterate _and_ annoying. Fuck, I think I'm getting a migraine. . . After I finish with my editing, I'll erase this damned "AN", since it annoys the Hell outta me. . .


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